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Oliver's travel writing has appeared in many papers, including the Western
Daily Press, the Times Educational Supplement, The Independent On Sunday,
The Mid Hampshire Observer and the Hampshire Chronicle. Here is a short
selection of articles.
On A Swiss Roll
Beezer Geysir
Carry On Carriacou
24 Hours From Tulsa
Help Me Ronda
A Game of Dominoes
Amsterdamnation
Calm Waters
Echo Beach
My Holiday Disaster
Norfolk
and Good
The Péage of Unreason
Blessed Virgin Island
Un, deux, Troyes
On A Swiss Roll
Everything you have read about Swiss railways is true. They are clean,
fast, efficient, run to the millisecond and are more than a tad expensive.
The private ones, I mean, the ones that creep up and down the mountains
like caterpillars, rather than the pleasingly economical state-funded
ones which ply the cities.
Anyway, we had explored the beautiful cobbled streets of Zurich, done
some serious hiking in the Berner Oberland, shopped like crazy in Lucerne
and Interlaken, and now we were on a mission, namely to scale the Eiger
and conquer the Jungfraujoch (Top of Europe, as it is branded). What?
No, by train, of course.
If you are going to tackle the Jungfraujoch in this way, choose the right
day to do it. We didn't. After paying a cool £70 each, we boarded
a train otherwise populated by Japanese touring parties and headed on
up towards the highest railway station in Europe. Unfortunately, two thirds
of the journey is spent in a tunnel inside the mountain, surreally watching
on-board videos of the outside world you can't see, while stopping at
subterranean stations whose sole point is to allow the tourists to look
out of a window and admire the view - which, on this particular day was
an impenetrable fog of nothingness.
When you reach the summit, even on a good day, it has been turned into
something along the lines of a theme park, with restaurants, exhibitions
and ice sculptures. On a bad day, such as the one we chose, two thirds
of the facilities were closed, which I would have thought would have merited
a discount. No chance.
Undeterred, we set out the next day on an altogether more rewarding adventure.
The Rigi is a mountain adjacent to the Vierwaldstättensee, an hour's
boat ride from Lucerne. As the boat glides soundlessly into the village
of Witznau, the rack and pinion railway is waiting to haul you up to the
summit, dropping off post and schoolchildren along the way. And the destination
is simply magical.
The reason is that, when you are at the top, you are actually above the
clouds. Above you, all is a stunning azure blue, while below, the peaks
of lesser summits poke out from the cotton-wool clouds like islands in
an ocean. The silence is total and the utter purity of the air you breathe
is the most refreshing thing you'll ever experience.
If you want to, you can stay overnight in this unspoilt paradise, a good
idea if, like us, you choose to go out of season and take advantage of
the tranquility. Well-signed pathways allow you to walk or sledge your
way either all the way back down to the lake's edge (it will take you
three and a half hours) or to one of the tiny stations, where the returning
train will pick you up again.
We reckoned that, travelling by Easy Jet from Luton to Zurich, you could
be at the top of the Rigi in six hours from Winchester, making this a
more than sensible weekend destination. We'll go again.
Oliver and Birgit
Gray travelled with Easy Jet from Luton to Zurich.
Back
to the top
Puffin' round Iceland
The name of the gourmet restaurant was "Lakjarbrekka" and one
of the principal items on the menu was a "Puffin Feast". Naturally,
we recoiled, although later, I couldn't work out why. If chicken and turkey
are okay, why should we worry about eating puffin? Because they are more
cuddly? It's like eating cows and being shocked at the French for eating
horses - illogical, really.
Anyway, I opted instead for a "Lobster Feast", and, overlooking
the fact that the poor thing had probably been boiled alive, sat down
for the best meal of my life: The king of crustaceans, prepared in about
eight different ways and served with as much ceremony as if we were visiting
heads of state. Our visit to Iceland was getting off to a great start.
The next morning, we received the explanation for why the shower in the
apartment smelt of rotten eggs. It was on account of the sulphur in the
water, created naturally in the geothermal springs which supply hot water
and central heating to the whole island. The Blue Lagoon, near Keflavik
airport, is where you can try out he waters. Not quite as idyllic as it
sounds (the architecture is austere and the lagoon is actually the overflow
from a power station), it is nonetheless quite an experience, not dissimilar
to a sauna, as you alternate between the surprisingly hot baths and the
sub-zero temperatures outside.
Wandering round Reykjavik is a relaxed and pleasurable experience, as
the capital is so charmingly laid back. The waterfront is beautiful; the
range of excellent art galleries is wide and the cafés and bars
so warm and welcoming (and not as wildly expensive as you may fear). Naturally
the music of Björk is ubiquitous. Our highlight was an hour spent
in the architectually sensational Hallgrimskirkja church, where a gentleman
was playing free-form jazz on the organ and the building benefited from
having no decorations whatever - no flowers, stained glass, candles, nothing,
a refreshing contrast to a recent visit to Rome.
The back-packers among you are well catered for in Iceland, with a huge
network of hostels and bus routes which could last you a month. We weekend-breakers
had to settle for a minibus tour, one of many which can, if you have time,
develop into snowmobile rides, glacier safaris, horse trecking or dogsled
excursions. Our knowledgeable driver (a Devonian who had established the
Ba'hai faith in Iceland, don't ask) took us first to Pingvellir, where
the tectonic pates shift and Europe meets North America. A visit to the
stunning Gulfloss waterfall led on to the highlight of any visit to Iceland,
an encounter with the hot springs of - guess where - Geysir. The idea
is that you go as close as you dare, then run for it as they erupt. That's
when you realize the almost humbling uniqueness of Iceland, a country
of great prosperity, ecological purity and virtually no crime.
And we were glad we had spared the puffin.
Oliver and Birgit
Gray travelled with Iceland Express, Iceland's low-cost airline
Back to the top
Carry On Carriacou
The Swiss Family Robinson ... My father wanted me to read it, so I pretended
I had. Swallows and Amazons ... I tried to make my children read it but
they didn't even pretend to. Robinson Crusoe ... scary. Lord of the Flies
... even more so. And Oliver Reed with ... ooh, what was that woman called?
Damn sexy anyway. Yes, Desert Islands 'R' Us.
But where do you find a desert island? I had a plan that included a whole
load of ever-diminishing islands, which, if all went well, would lead
eventually to a Crusoe experience.
First stop, Barbados. If you ever thought about flying anywhere with Virgin,
get in the internet and book now. It's unlike any other flying experience
you will ever have. From the moment you sit down, beautiful blondes ply
you with alcohol, food, tea, ice-creams and anything else you need (within
reason) to occupy you in the few free moments you have between watching
uninterrupted Hollywood blockbusters on the dinky little screen in the
back of the seat in front. That'd soon cure Dennis Bergkamp of his fear
of flying.
In the immigration queue at Barbados, we met a lady who was going to stay
with her thirty-year younger Barbadian lover. "Do you think he will
like my dress?" she asked. Not knowing his tastes, we said we thought
he would. Behind us was a Londoner called Rob, returning to his Grenadian
homeland with a device for sterilising the beer silos in the Carib brewery.
He'd been back the month before and picked up a rôle in the first
feature film ever to be made in Grenada, "The Duppy Project",
only to blot his copybook by getting off with the leading lady. No, he
said, he wouldn't be going to the premiere.
We spent two days in Grenada, and besides checking out the capital St.
George's, were let to a secret hot spring, buried deep, deep in the rainforest.
We paddled, plucked bananas from the trees and gathered nutmeg kernels
from around our feet. Grenada is the Spice Island, after all.
Our destination (reached with the aid of a tiny yellow eight-seater plane)
was Carriacou, an island with a population of just under six thousand,
just thirteen miles long and one of the few spots in the Caribbean not
to have been spoilt in any way. There are no "resorts", no cruise
ships call here and we were the only tourists. Yes, in theory it was Hurricane
Season, but the last hurricane here was fifteen years ago and the only
manifestations were the occasional short shower of warm rain to dance
around in, plus a slight surfeit of mosquitos.
The advantages of being the only tourists soon became clear. Just a few
steps from our house was a beach which effectively was private, since
there was never another person there. A trek over the hills led to Anse
La Roche beach, accessible only by hiking or by boat. No one was there
either. Down the coast was the aptly-named Paradise Beach, miles of glorious
sand with nary a person to be seen, yet ... yes, it wasn't a mirage, a
sweet wooden beach bar called Hardwood. Here resided Joy and Joseph, who
was later to turn the Crusoe dream into reality. And the final perk: For
eating out, all you had to do was choose a restaurant, ring it up, say
what you'd like to eat and they would open specially for you. We became
used to walking into rooms in which just one table had been laid. Lobster
a-go-go, by the way.
But first, more islands. The Osprey took us to Petite Martinique (not
to be confused with Martinique or Mustique), where we bought a divine
take-away Roti before hopping a water taxi over to Petit St. Vincent,
a privately-owned millionaire's hideaway island which kindly tolerates
riff-raff like us lolling on its beaches and snorkelling in its waters.
But here, if you have the money, you can hire a cottage, so it isn't a
desert island either.
The dream was finally attained one idyllic day, when Joseph ferried us
over in his self-constructed boat to Sandy Island, a speck of silver sand
with its own coral reef, one and a half palm trees and a couple of manchineels.
Normally there might have been a yacht or two anchored nearby, but today
they were all off sailing somewhere. It was us, the pelicans and shoals
of millions and millions of brightly-coloured translucent tropical fish.
While we lay in the shallows, they flopped around on our chests. We'd
packed a Carib and a mango and kept saying, "God, life will never,
ever be better than this."
The people of Carriacou are wonderfully kind and hospitable. Many of them
live in conditions of cheerful poverty and would love to welcome visitors
who will take the island as it is and not seek to impose an alien culture
on it. This adventure didn't cost much more than a package tour, but it
was truly a life-altering experience.
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24
Hours From Tulsa
Tulsa is uniquely associated with one song. The only trouble is that the
entire point of "24 Hours From Tulsa" is that dear old Gene
Pitney is still a day and a night away from Tulsa as he sings of his indiscretion
in a hotel room which means that he can "never, never, never go home
again". And neither Gene nor songwriters Bacharach and David had
any connection with Tulsa anyway. It merely met the requirement of being
a two syllable town beginning with a consonant.
Tulsa isn't easy to get to. Despite the lonesome whistles of the freight
trains as they traverse the downtown area, there is no Amtrack passenger
service to Tulsa and nothing much in the way of buses either. Luckily,
there's Tulsa International Airport, accessible from Gatwick via a brief
stopover in Minneapolis.
You get around by car, car and car. This is quintessential mid-America,
where you drive absolutely everywhere: to the malls, to the bars and above
all to the churches. This isn't just the Bible Belt, it's braces and corsets
too. There are simply thousands of churches in Tulsa (I counted 3420 in
the Greater Tulsa Yellow Pages): Methodist, Baptist, Adventist and any
other kind of - ist you care to mention. Most of the buildings are gigantic,
and on Sundays they need extra shifts of police to control the churchgoing
traffic. Confusingly, the illuminated signs announcing guest preachers
are identical to those advertising visiting bands in the nightclubs. Thus,
cruising for some music on our first night, we pulled into several church
car parks before eventually locating Fishbonz, a classic student-filled
mid-West roadhouse.
The pervasive air of religious fervour in Tulsa had an unexpected spin-off
when our daughter got her finger stuck in the car door on the forecourt
of a shopping mall. As she writhed screaming on the floor, a lady pushed
forward through the crowd. Good, we thought, a first aid expert. No such
luck - the lady was kindly offering to pray for her!
The next day, I caused complete consternation by suggesting walking, ooh,
all of 500 metres to the local gas station to buy beer. Walking? The very
thought! But that was as nothing compared to my attempt, as a pedestrian,
to purchase a burger at Sonic's Drive-In hamburger bar. The system couldn't
cope with this unconventional behaviour, so I had to pretend to be a car,
stand in a bay and communicate via intercom, the burger eventually being
delivered on roller skates.
But the churches aren't Tulsa's only buildings of note. Tulsa is dubbed
"Terra Cotta City" on account of some quite charming and very
unusual art-deco landmarks, including many listed in the National Register
of Historic Places. Probably the best known are the Brook Theatre and
the Union Depot, but we were most impressed by the Adams building on Cheyenne
and 4th. It felt more like Barcelona than Oklahoma. All the wealth in
these buildings came from the oil boom in the 1920s, commemorated in the
8-storey high statue if the Golden Driller, who stands proudly outside
the Exposition Center. Tulsa still has an air of prosperity. It's a technological
centre, with the rusting old oil pipelines now carrying fibre-optic cables.
So if 24 Hours From Tulsa could be virtually anywhere, how about 24 miles
from Tulsa? Ah, now we're talking. "Route 66" is a better song
anyway, and Tulsa is the place to get a real feel for the Mother Road.
The route of dreamers and drifters takes you out from West Tulsa to Sapulpa,
with its restored Main Street and its Route 66 memorabilia shops and roadside
diners. The rest of Route 66 has been subsumed into the interstate system,
but here you can really get an impression of what it must have felt like
in the glory days of the 40s and 50s, when Sapulpa was an oil boom town.
The museum run by the local historical society is a gem.
Another place to get your kicks is in Tulsa's parks. Far from the flattened
dustbowl expected by readers of The Grapes Of Wrath, Tulsa is set in undulating
hills and woodland. Our park of choice was Hunter Park. Here you can play
disc golf, a gentle form of golf played with frisbees rather than clubs.
There's also a range of museums and art galleries, the most prominent
being the Philbrook Museum, which houses Italian Renaissance art. Music
lovers will be intrigued by Cain's Ballroom. the Carnegie Hall of country
music, as well as the Oklahoma Jazz Hall of Fame. Tulsa's favourite musical
son is Leon Russell, sixty years old this year.
There are plenty of other good day trips, especially if you're interested
in the 39 federally registered Native American tribes which reside in
Oklahoma (the word itself coming from two Choctaw Indian words meaning
"red man"). Just 70 miles south east of Tulsa, in the foothills
of the Ozark Mountains, lies Tahlequah, capital of the Cherokee Nation.
The town itself is dull, but just outside it lies the Cherokee Heritage
Center, a magnificent and profoundly moving tribute to the thousands of
NativeAmericans displaced and forced to trek half way across America on
the Trail of Tears, to their new home in Oklahoma. Here we were also given
a personal demonstration of Indian crafts and a guided tour of the reconstructed
Indian village.
At the slight risk of OD-ing on Heritage, another great day out is to
Bartlesville, where Frank Phillips discovered oil (inevitably christening
it the "66" brand) and used some of the proceeds to create his
Woolaroc Ranch, nowadays a wildlife park and beautifully presented museum,
largely filled with Western and Native American paintings. A hundred miles
further on into the Ozarks, but definitely worth the effort, is Eureka
Springs, a kitsch but irresistible mountain spa town and artistic community.
Its speciality? Jacuzzis For Two in every B and B. Whoopee!
Independent on Sunday
Back to the top
Help Me Ronda
Ronda, the most famous of the Andalucian "White Towns", is a
perfect destination for a short break. Although it can be swamped with
tourists at the height of the season, at any other time it is a quiet
and amiable place. I visited in June and it was almost deserted.
Now that there are flights from Southampton to Malaga, Ronda is easily
accessible to Chronicle readers. It's just a couple of hours' drive inland
from Malaga, yet it could be a world away. The first glimpse of Ronda,
perched like a white puff of smoke on its own private mountain, is a breathtaking
sight. Once you've arrived, the views outwards from the town walls are
just as spectacular.
Right in the centre of Ronda, the El Tajo gorge is crossed by the eighteenth
century Puente Nuevo viaduct. It's fun just to stand on the bridge and
take in the seemingly endless vista, but, if you have the energy, it's
also rewarding to climb down one of the steep paths into the gorge and
gain another perspective on the viaduct (see photo). Here you can hide
behind rocks and imagine yourself to be in a Western shoot-out.
Another must-see is the beautifully-preserved and still fully active bull
ring (one of the first to be built in Spain), again positioned right in
the centre of the town. It was here that Ernest Hemingway based scenes
in "For Whom The Bell Tolls" and a nearby street is named after
him. A small fee will allow you to explore for as long as you want and
will also gain you admission to a beautifully-presented small museum.
One jewel of Ronda which is easy to miss is the Casa del Rey Moro, tucked
away down one of the scores of steep cobbled side streets. Here you can
pick your way down 365 slippery steps to a little platform at the very
bottom of the gorge, giving a uniquely different perspective which few
tourists seem to discover.
Among the many other places of interest in Ronda are the thirteenth century
Moorish baths and the slightly over-rated Mondragón palace. But
probably the most rewarding activity is just to wander, taking in the
nooks and crannies, the unbelievable views and, of course, the occasional
"cerveza".
The only problem with eating out in Ronda is the excess of choice. Some
streets in the centre consist almost entirely of restaurants, but, disappointingly,
they all seem to offer very similar, standard fare. This is not the venue
for a gourmet weekend.
Accommodation is plentiful and wide-ranging. At the top end, "Alavera
de los Baños" offers Hotel du Vin standards, with prices to
match, but would make an ideal romantic hideaway. Me, I checked into the
"Hostal Colón", which offered en suite rooms at 3000
pesetas a night, which I worked out to be about £12. When, after
three days, I asked them to tot up all the various breakfasts, teas, sandwiches,
mineral waters and beers I had accumulated, they waved me away, declaring
that everything was "inclusivo".
Now that's my type of hotel!
Hants Chronicle
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A Game of Dominoes
Dominoes can be a frustrating game. Just are things are going along smoothly,
you unexpectedly experience a setback. Just like the Euro-Domino, in fact.
What is the Euro-Domino? It's a train ticket which allows you to travel
anywhere within a certain European country during a particular period
of time. You can buy them for three, five, seven or fourteen days and
you can use up those days any time within one month. For those who enjoy
carefree train travel, the Euro Domino is ideal, but not always as straightforward
as it seems.
The advantages are obvious. You buy your ticket in advance and it is considerably
cheaper than buying as you go along. You also have the flexibility of
being able to decide on the spur of the moment where you want to go -
in theory at least.
The disadvantages only become apparent as you go along and, to be fair,
the average Euro-Domino traveller is probably the sort of person who doesn't
particularly worry about setbacks. The biggest problem is that many fast
and main line trains require supplements to be paid. These are not covered
by the Domino ticket, so pockets have to be dug into.
That, however, is not all. Many trains, especially in busy seasons, get
so full that seats have to be reserved several days in advance, thus effectively
negating your alleged flexibility. It's best to be aware of this before
setting out, because otherwise (and I'm here to tell the tale) you can
find yourself far from home, with an apparently valid ticket which won't
actually allow you access to the train because you have omitted to obtain
a reserved seat. This can be just a little bit frustrating.
The first Domino week I did was in Switzerland. Everything you have ever
heard about the magnificence of this country's trains is true. They run
to the millisecond and cheerfully trundle up and down the steepest and
most snow-covered mountains. The Domino system works perfectly and can
be recommended without reservation.
France was a little more problematic, in that the entire railway system
is so fixated on Paris that it is well-nigh impossible to continue anywhere
in a straight line. You keep having to return to Paris in order to travel
from region to region. The TGV, though as fast as legend suggests, can
get very full and needs to be booked well in advance. The regional trains
can be almost as slow, unreliable and uncomfortable as ours, end even
less frequent.
Both the above points apply also to Spain. While the branch lines are
nicely uncongested and the stations (frequently in the middle of nowhere)
can be quite beautiful, standards of service can be disappointingly casual.
I'll never forget a horrific two hours spent at Granada station in a queuing
system not dissimilar to a supermarket deli counter, waiting for a surly,
chain-smoking clerk to issue an expensive reservation.
So, Dominoes is a great game. The Euro-Domino is a bargain, but it pays
to be well prepared.
Hants Chronicle
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Amsterdamnation
My wife always has good ideas. On this occasion, we had been wondering
what would make a good present for an impending big birthday of George,
a friend of mine to whom we owed many favours. It had to be a surprise
and it had to be special.
She was leafing through the Echo Travel Section and came across an advert
for cheap flights from Southampton. "Why not take him to Amsterdam
for the weekend?"
When you ring up these companies, they make it so smooth that you've booked
before you realise what you're doing. Within minutes, the flights were
reserved and paid for. All that was needed now was a hotel, and that also
was arranged in a trice by a friend of mine who is currently working in
Amsterdam. He booked us into the Bridge Hotel, in a prime position on
the bank of the Amstel.
George and I both work in similar businesses in a small town. Within minutes
of the present being handed over, the phone lines were buzzing.
"I hear you and George are going to Amsterdam for the weekend ..."
"Yes."
"Ho ho, say no more, know what I mean, etc."
"What?"
"Well you know what Amsterdam's famous for, don't you?"
"Er .. canals? Tulips?"
"Come on, Oliver, you're going for the dope and the red light district,
aren't you?"
Considering that neither of these things had even entered my head, it
came as something of a shock to realise that these are the only two things
for which Amsterdam is famous ... even among its own population.
But first, there was the little matter of checking into the hotel. The
receptionist, along with everyone else in this most cosmopolitan of cities,
spoke perfect English. When I returned to point out that I had requested
a room with two beds, not a double one, she admitted, "Well, I did
wonder, but, you know, Amsterdam is that kind of city." She explained
the situation in Dutch to the cleaning lady, who could not contain her
mirth. "Twie Männe!" she guffawed. "Yes," I added,
"but not twie that kind of Männe." Not that anything was
of avail, since the hotel was fully booked.
I haven't shared a bed with anyone but my wife for twenty-odd years, and
she tells me I snore, fart and shout out swearwords in my sleep. George
and I crept into the respective outer limits of the bed and concentrated
on not doing any of the above things. Even friendship has limits. In my
dream, two beautiful Indonesian girls entered the room and insisted on
taking me and George out on a tour of the city. But it was only a dream.
In the morning, we asked the receptionist about hiring bicycles. "Good
idea," she said. "You will be able to visit the red light district
and .... (conspiratorial leer) ... the coffee shops."
"Well, actually we wanted to go to the Vondelpark and the Flower
Market."
"Yes, but I'm sure you will want to visit the red light area and
the coffee shops on the way."
In the bike shop, it was even worse. The assistant was a real live wire.
"You don't want extra insurance? But you will be leaving the bikes
in dangerous areas and ..." - he turned to me, God knows why - "especially
you, will be going to the coffee shops. After that, you will probably
have an accident."
Rather pompously, and probably also out of general timidity, we indeed
did avoid these famous areas, until tempted into a canalside café
called, appropriately in view of the way the city works, "Chaos Café".
There we threw caution to the winds and started drinking beer. Prior to
that, we had decided that the combination of alcohol and brakeless bikes
in a frantic and almost completely anarchic traffic environment could
well be lethal. The Heineken they served was pleasingly weak and we soon
got talking to the charming barmaid and her equally charming friend. "Have
you been to the red light district yet?"
"No, we thought it might be a bit dangerous."
"Oh no, everything is very calm, because of all the coffee shops.
You must have visited the coffee shops?"
"Well ..." We looked at each other. "Not yet", I said,"
but we plan to visit the red light district and the coffee shops this
afternoon." Finally, we had come to realise that the recommendations
were genuine and not necessarily an oblique and uncomplimentary inference
that we looked like drug-addled dirty old men.
"I am bloody well going to go into all the porn shops and I am bloody
well going to have a joint", I thought. And so it bloody well transpired,
the latter being planned first in order to provide courage for the former.
It didn't work at all. First, there were two humiliating false starts.
In the first café we entered, neither of us had the courage to
ask for anything other than a beer. The second one turned out to be a
cyber café. This was even worse. Before we knew what was happening,
we had booked ourselves twenty minutes of computer time. We thought of
sending e-mails to our friends, before realising that we only knew our
own addresses and abjectly sending messages to ourselves.
The third café looked more promising. There were large murals of
Bob Marley and reggae music boomed from its murky interior. George ordered
some "space cake" but I was hyper by then and pointed to a box
of joints. Sensing my inexperience, the barman enquired, "Is this
the first time you smoke?" I nodded sheepishly. "Be careful",
he warned. " Very strong, very strong".
Needless to say, neither of us felt anything whatsoever. We both concluded
that it was a complete scam. After all, you're hardly likely to go to
the police and complain, are you? "I've had enough of this",
said George. "I'm buying a bottle of wine."
the Red Light district was marginally more interesting. Certainly, the
display of baffling devices was comprehensive, as were the wall-to-wall
video cassettes with unlikely-sounding titles. My favourite was "A
Mother, a Daughter, a Fat Woman and a Dog". To judge by the cover
photo, the title was a literal rather than a metaphorical description.
After a while, we realised that all the shops were duplicating themselves
and that most were obviously part of a chain. As, shockingly, were the
"Bob Marley" coffee shops.
The ladies of the night, in their little cabins, were disappointingly
unalluring and, once you'd noticed that most of them had several rolls
of kitchen towel beside their couches, not in the least bit tempting.
Still, one of them actually did utter to me the immortal words, "Hi
there, big boy". How did she know?
After that, the touristy things we did were less daring but more satisfying.
We spent a wild and wonderful evening in the Melkweg, a brilliant music
venue where we saw the reassuringly wholesome and ultra-funky Luscious
Jackson. Then we went the whole hog with a full-scale vegetarian Indonesian
Rejstafel, quite an experience because it was so spicy that it rendered
both of us completely unable to speak for nearly an hour.
In the morning, we hired a small electric boat to ply the canals. The
charming girls in charge of the boats recommended a good route. "You
will pass through the red light district and the coffee shops," they
said.
"Oh no we won't," we replied. But we did anyway.
Hants Chronicle
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Calm Waters
Life is full of preconceptions and one of them is that taking a holiday
in Basingstoke is not a good idea. This is true. But what is also true
is that the Basingstoke Canal isn't actually very near Basingstoke.
Another preconception is that canal holidays entail lots of very hard
work. This is true as well and I have the hernia to prove it. But what
is also true is that the Basingstoke Canal enjoys 22 miles in which there
is but one lock, surely a record.
By coincidence, on the Bank Holiday weekend when we cruised the Basingstoke
Canal in blistering sunshine and with the minimum of exertion, a Sunday
paper (not this one) published what claimed to be a comprehensive guide
to the navigable waterways of the UK and failed even to mention the existence
of the Basingstoke Canal. Meanwhile, the leaflet from the Canal Centre
describes it as the country's most beautiful waterway. Curiouser and curiouser.
The truth is that, as we discovered, you can drive just minutes from the
M3 and find yourself on an oasis of tranquility that paradoxically manages
to travel through Military establishments, shooting ranges and large suburban
conurbations while completely ignoring all of them. At the same time,
you are gaining unique access to nature reserves, unspoilt countryside
and historical sites, virtually without leaving your own home.
For anyone who hasn't savoured the joys of canal cruising, it's true what
they claim about the boats, that they are truly a home from home with
all the facilities you'd expect to find in a house, give and take the
odd fax machine and dishwasher. What they don't mention is that everything
is in miniature, so you have to sit down for your shower and dismantle
your table to make it into a bed at night. But that's all part of the
fun.
Another part of the fun (at least, that's how you see it afterwards) is
the inevitable series of disasters you will perpetrate. Here's how our
particular catalogue went. After a first day of unparalleled peace, we
tied up at the Swan in Ash Vale. Click, went the padlock on the door as
we departed. Click, went my brain, as I realised sickeningly that the
key to the padlock was still inside the cabin. This was a severe problem,
since it was impossible to get in any other way and the folder containing
the emergency number of the boatyard was securely locked inside as well.
As a night spent sleeping on the towpath didn't appeal, I had no alternative
but to take my children's advice and perpetrate some advanced vandalism
in the form of snapping the padlock apart with the help of the thoughtfully-provided
boathook. Effective as this action was, it did induce a certain amount
of anxiety as to the padlock's usefulness as an anti-burglary device.
In the morning, some friends arrived for a quiet day's cruising. Within
minutes of starting off, one of them tried out the loo but fell foul of
a flaw in the flushing device. Amid much screaming, it was ascertained
that the toilet was overflowing and rapidly flooding the main cabin. Hurtling
below to try to give assistance, I thrust the tiller into the hands of
the other visitor, omitting to remember that he had never steered a boat
before. It was only seconds before we had veered into a strictly prohibited
nature reserve, narrowly missing the nest of some rare aquatic bird and
necessitating a very complicated and tortuous manoeuvre to get ourselves
facing back in the right direction. After this, our daughter's complaint
that she had dropped her sunglasses into the water hardly even registered.
That evening, we decided on a pub meal. This is an integral part of any
canal holiday, but as much of the canal wanders through the built-up areas
of Fleet, Farnborough and Aldershot, most of the pubs turned out to be
chains and the only one which wasn't expressed astonishment at our request
for food. I thought that the question was fairly reasonable in view of
the large sign outside saying "Pub Food". Anyway, all turned
out for the best, since Fleet boasts the most fantastic Nepalese restaurant,
where the standards of service were the best any of us had ever encountered.
Returning to the boat, we noticed a larger than usual proportion of completely
legless youths emerging from the many "over-18s only theme pubs"
and briefly wondered whether we had been wise to moor up so close to the
town centre. This suspicion was substantiated when we awoke next morning
to discover that we had been cast adrift in the night. Not that a canal
is an environment where any water-hog is likely to zoom round a corner
and crash into you, but it was disconcerting nonetheless.
But any canal holiday will have its adventures and, oddly enough, it would
be slightly disappointing if all you did was cruise gently along. The
Basingstoke Canal does allow for much gentle cruising, especially as there
are so few interruptions. The sole lock is at Ash Vale and there are only
a couple of swing bridges. If you were to attempt to progress all the
way to Byfleet, there would be a little matter of a further 39 locks,
but you would need several weeks and special permission to attempt that.
What we did was to set off initially westwards from the boatyard at Colt
Hill, and we easily reached Mytchett, where the Deep Cut flight of locks
begins. In the three available days, we had plenty of time to turn and
retrace our route and also follow the canal eastwards to the limit of
its navigability, which is the now-blocked Greywell tunnel, home to large
colonies of rare bats. Nearby is Odiham Castle, built in 1207 and known
as King John's Castle, after he fled there from his barons in 1215, before
riding on to Runnymede to sign the Magna Carta. This monument is that
rare entity, a castle which has no kiosk demanding an admission fee; you
are free to wander as you wish.
The parts of the canal around Odiham are entirely rural, with many opportunities
to study wildlife in the form of coots, moorhens, swans, herons and their
fluffy offspring. Even in the areas around Aldershot, where you are travelling
through military land and housing estates, there are many large expanses
of open water, known as "flashes" which are managed as nature
reserves. Indeed, as is usual on canals, you are transported into a kind
of parallel world in which you are part of the familiar environment yet
somehow strangely detached from it.
So if you're thinking of trying out a short canal boat break, hesitate
no longer; you could hardly find a more gentle introduction. Be prepared
for some adventures and be assured you'll have a great time too.
Hants Chronicle
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Echo Beach
The sound of the Rainstick is a melancholy one. It's a noise which attracts
a bizarre collection of addicts to the beach at Eype, just outside Bridport,
on the West Dorset coast. In the case of the Rainstick, the sound is created
by little stones tumbling through a network of twigs. At Eype, it's the
waves breaking with metronomic regularity onto the steep bank of pebbles
which form the shoreline.
So timeless and reliable is this sound that it tends to induce laughably
frightening thoughts such as "How many pebbles are there in the world?".
These are thoughts which may or may not cross the minds of the small but
dedicated number of people who, rain or shine, winter or summer, day or
night, can be found sitting on the pebble bank, staring out to sea for
hours on end. What it is about certain places which gives them the power
to mesmerise in this way?
In the week we spent at Eype, rain fell ceaselessly for 72 hours and it
was shrouded in fog for the rest of the time. Yet the (well-hidden) caravan
park was full, the campsite was full, the B & Bs were full and no
one showed any discontent or desire to leave. They must have been regulars,
since it takes a real effort to get there. The lane is so winding and
narrow that some people assume they're on the wrong road and turn back;
anyone attempting to approach on foot has to negotiate steep, tortuous
cliff paths.
One afternoon, I was stopped by a middle-aged gentleman who pretended
he wanted to ask the way. He introduced himself as being a Russian poet
from Leningrad and, within moments, had produced from his rucksack a slim
hardback book containing his own poems, all dedicated specifically to
this small stretch of Dorset coastline. The almost spiritual sincerity
shone through so brightly that I read them avidly. Each poem had also
been painstakingly translated into Russian. He hailed a passing walker
to take a picture of me studying his literary work.
Leonid is by no means the only one to find Eype beach artistically inspirational.
The African master drummer Noah Messomo holds highly atmospheric drum
workshops here ("turn right", say the directions) and the artist
John Skinner leads beach sculpture sessions. Musician Jackie Leven credits
the locality as influential in his work, and the singer and songwriter
Polly Harvey is specifically inspired by these very waves and pebbles.
At 1 a.m. one night, we met in the lane a woman called Fiona and her young
daughter who had driven that day all the way from Rotherham. Their husband
and father had deserted them ten days earlier and they'd chosen Eype beach
as the place to "find themselves". Overcome with emotion as
they told their story, they nonetheless were obviously gaining in strength
and determination from their pilgrimage. They had two Rotweilers. "Don't
trust them," said Fiona. "They don't like men."
Even in the middle of the night, there are figures hunched up on the top
of the pebble bank. With their Hurricane lamps and their Thermoses, the
dedicated shore fishermen of Eype spend most of their lives there. They
never seem to catch anything, so what are they doing? It's obvious: They
are composing songs, writing poems and discovering the true meaning of
life.
Hants Chronicle
My Holiday Disaster
To be fair, we were warned. When in Poland, the guide book said, be prepared
for the public toilets to be challenging. Snort. For veterans of the original,
now fast disappearing French "Flush and Run" specials, what
possible terrors could Poland's conveniences hold?
You can't avoid them, unless you're teetotal. The seductive nature of
the extremely strong and outrageously cheap beer ("piwo", such
a sweet name, don't you think?) means that an occasional visit is essential.
It was my wife who first alerted me to possible problems. Disappearing
into the depths of the cellar of the central arcade in the "Reynek"
(market place) in Krakow, she took a worryingly long time to reappear.
It transpired that, after a lengthy queuing procedure, she had been severely
told off by the "babcia klozetowa" (brutal old lady in charge
of handing out the regulation two sheets of toilet paper). My wife had
had the temerity to protest (via sign language) that this wasn't much
of a deal for 40 groszy. But the main hold-up had been caused by a fruitless
search for a flushing mechanism and a fear of public humiliation if she
re-emerged without having flushed. It was only after having finally given
up hope that she discovered that the mechanism was activated by opening
the cubicle door.
A couple of piwos later, I had no choice but to follow. Sure enough, I
promptly had a run-in with the babcia klozetowa, who tried to claim that
I had performed a function other then the one I had. You see, a pee costs
40 groszy, something more substantial costs 50 groszy. On this occasion,
I was accused of trying to get away cheaply, despite the fact that her
beady eyes had been on me throughout the operation.
What happened at the gloriously down-at-heel Hotel DomTurysty in Zacopane
(jewel of the Tatra Mountains) was, however, more than a joke. Taken short
(50 groszys worth) in the breakfast room, I wrongly assumed that the hotel's
facilities would be free. I had already entered the loo when I realised
that I had no money. Pounced upon by the duty crone, who thought I was
leaving, not arriving, I had to suffer a tyrade of abuse as I tried to
explain that I was just going back to fetch my fee.
On returning, I proffered the 50 groszy, which were quickly pocketed.
Unfortunately, she thought it was in payment of my alleged previous foray,
and now refused to let me in. When all pleading failed, I had no choice
but to return to the dining room yet again, to get another 50 groszy.
This gained me admission (thank God), but in the kerfuffle, the guardian
hadn't given me my two sheets of loo paper, a fact which I didn't actually
realise until I physically required it. A furtive peer out of the cubicle
door revealed that the crone had now gone off for a break. The only way
to get hold of any paper was to hop, trousers round ankles, to the attendant's
kiosk and remove the paper from where it lay, enticingly, on a shelf.
I don't think the two Dutch backpackers who witnessed this operation will
ever get over the trauma.
Independent on Sunday
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Norfolk and Good
On the M25 on the way to the Norfolk Broads, the traffic was at a standstill
in the torrential rain, but we comforted ourselves with the reassuring
thought that we were heading for the land of Arthur Ransome's "Coot
Club", an area of tranquil beauty where we would be able to relax
and forget the hurly-burly of daily life.
Yes, well ... Arthur Ransome was writing a long time ago. The similarities
between the M25 and the Broads are startling: long, straight, featureless
and permanently jammed. Although, to be perfectly accurate, a better analogy
would be Tesco's car park on a Friday evening: a procession of vehicles
searching fruitlessly for a parking space. As dusk encroaches, you start
to panic. Where can we tie up? Okay, you can drop anchor in the middle
of a broad, but then you can't go to the pub.
Ah yes, the pubs. They really have it sewn up, you know. You can moor
up outside them but only if you a) pay a fiver for the privilege or b)
eat an over-priced meal in them. The first night provided us with quite
an adventure. We stumbled through the monsoon to a large pub with a big
family room. We all commented on the fact that the chips were real, not
frozen. How refreshing! But not for one family, who complained about their
quality.
The chef was at the end of his tether after allegedly serving 300 meals
that weekend. He charged out of the kitchen and slammed a potato onto
their table.
"You wanna see a f....... potato? That's a f....... potato! In this
pub you get real food. If you want frozen food, you can f ..... off back
to your council house!"
Unfortunately, he had chosen the wrong family. The father was large, tattooed
and musclebound while the wife would have given a fishwife a bad name.
It was obvious that a major brawl was about to break out, especially when
the chef charged into the kitchen and re-emerged with a large catering
container full of chips, clearly planning to pour them over the customer's
head. Along with the rest of the cowering clientele, we slunk out into
the car park, adults shivering and children wide-eyed.
As it turned out, it was a good thing the chef hadn't done a Basil Fawlty
and demanded to know whether the other customers were satisfied. Comparing
notes back on the boat, we discovered that the salmon and prawn pie had
contained neither salmon nor prawns, while the chicken curry had thrown
up remarkably little chicken. You could imagine hands being timidly raised:
"Er, well, actually ...."
The pubs got better, but not much. On the second night, we were enticed
to moor outside a hostelry in Horning. There a man was on duty especially
to reel you in, like a fish. By this time, it was so wet that you could
hardly tell where the river ended and the garden began, and he was appropriately
attired in waders. He then woke us up at 6 am by noisily re-arranging
us in order to squeeze in yet more captive customers.
The next night we were at Reedham Ferry, where things looked more promising
until the local folk musician came on and played every cliche finger-in-the-ear
folk song known to man. His set culminated in a lusty singalong entitled
"Norfolk and Good" (try singing it out loud). The children were
even wider-eyed than before.
Before finally giving in and opting for the "anchor in the middle
of a broad" option, we had one last despairing attempt. The pub in
Stalham was one of those where fifty percent of the menu was "off"
and the very loud jukebox specialised in speed metal. We ate our second
choices surrounded by the black leather-clad and heavily-pierced locals,
to the strains of Metallica and Megadeth. Yum! From then on, we settled
for take-aways from Somerfields in Beccles.
Probably, a Broads holiday is wonderful if the sun shines, but as it was,
we just had to keep on the move, which was especially problematic because
the hire boats don't have windscreen wipers and you can't see where you
are going. A further problem is caused by the fact that you have to lower
your entire roof before going under bridges. In a tropical storm this
is inadvisable, so various routes are inaccessible to you. This meant
that, in two days, we had explored every available inch of the Northern
Broads and had to take the plunge of negotiating Great Yarmouth, about
which the guide book was highly doom-laden, and rightly so. It was terrifying.
What you have to do is calculate when low tide is and set out from Stracey
Arms two hours beforehand, in the knowledge that the river is now tidal
and that you will not be able to stop or moor up anywhere between there
and the coast. Instructions for dealing with the various bridges, narrow
channels, vicious currents, traffic lights and other hazards of Great
Yarmouth are detailed and complicated. You couldn't do it without someone
reading them out loud to you.
Except that some people obviously do. Here another hazard comes into the
equation. Not only are we incompetent landlubbers but so is practically
everyone else on the Broads. We have all had a laughable minimum of instruction.
We, however, are trying to follow the rules about speed, position, etiquette,
etc, while many of the others cheerfully ignore all that, instead acting
as if they are in bumper boats in a theme park.
On the way to Great Yarmouth, therefore, we saw one terrified family stranded
at 45 degrees on a mudflat. Negotiating one of the bridges, we narrowly
avoided a head-on collision with one boat while nearly being rammed from
behind by another. Once on Breydon Broad, a speedboat full of "Hullabaloos"
streaked past, leaving the flotilla of pleasure boats bobbing and plunging
and in genuine danger of sinking.
On the way home, the M25 seemed quite a pleasurable prospect.
Hants Chronicle
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The Péage of Unreason
Planning a summer holiday driving in France? Don't set off before reading
Oliver Gray's cautionary tale.
Despite the fact that I suffer from a motorway phobia (not such an uncommon
thing as you might imagine), I found myself saying to the family, "You
know, maybe motorways aren't so bad after all". It was Sunday lunchtime,
late July, just outside Calais. The autoroute was almost picturesque,
its central reservation crammed with attractive flowering shrubs, and
there was not a single car, lorry, caravan or "mobil-'ome" in
sight. I was cured!
Twenty-four hours later, we were all reaching for the Valium again. South
of Dijon, the lorries were back, the Dutch were back, the Brits and the
Germans were back and the péage was once again the Highway To Hell.
In fact, it was Hell.
Now we remembered why we'd sworn never to drive the length of France again.
What was worse, we'd just worked out that, by the time you added up all
the petrol and the frequent and astronomical péage tolls, it would
have been almost as cheap to put the car on the train and travel without
terror.
People love national stereotyping when it comes to drivers, but it doesn't
matter where they come from, as soon as they hit the French péage,
they all go completely crazy. It's almost as if they're saying, look,
we've paid for this, so we'll do what we like.
"What we like" consists of switching lanes without indicating,
weaving in and out of traffic like a snake, exceeding the speed limit
as a matter of honour, flashing, hooting and gesticulating and, above
all, seeing how close you can get to the car in front while travelling
at 100 miles an hour.
The autoroute has magnificent signing. One of the most useful notices
is a frequent and gigantic hoarding pointing out in pictorial fashion
that you need to keep at least two of the white lines they have helpfully
painted at the side of the road between you and the next car. If not,
it says, you're dead if it chooses to brake suddenly.
Fine. Except that not a single person takes the tiniest notice of it.
The authorities might as well have saved themselves the millions of francs
the warnings undoubtedly cost. Yes, so it's just human beings exercising
their right to take risks, like they do by smoking, mountaineering and
walking to the North Pole. The only trouble is, they're taking risks with
me and my family as well as their own.
So it wasn't surprising that every few kilometres, there was a pile-up.
We saw a Dutch caravan which had ended up vertical rather than horizontal,
numerous shunts and one scene where people were actually being laid out
by the side of the road. The thing to look out for is a sudden blaze of
brake lights and hazard warning lights immediately in front of you. This
is a signal for you to slam on the brakes and do likewise, hoping that
the person behind is reasonably alert.
The péage has huge and very impressive gantries which provide you
with useful information such as "belt up in the back" (observed
as much as the "keep your distance" signs are) or advance notice
that the next "aire" will provide live entertainment for children.
The one to watch out for, however, is "Bouchon". This, conveniently,
is a direct translation of the English word "Bottleneck", and
what it means is, keep going at the same outrageous speed, but be ready
to leap on your brakes and switch on your flashers at any moment.
On the way home, something really peculiar happened. One of the many ignored
signs is one advising drivers to "take a break". This is something
you can actually do in France (as opposed to in the UK) because every
few kilometres there are very nice little "aires", or resting
places. Being obedient, we decided to do just that, and the three attractive
females in the family promptly lay down on a blanket and fell asleep.
I, the unattractive male member of the family, went to the loo and was
startled, on my return, to find that a battered old Renault had parked
next to them. In it were two young Marti Pellow clones (dark pony-tailed,
handsome, unshaven), who were observing the girls closely.
Having just read a newspaper article about motorway bandits, I momentarily
and mistakenly sensed trouble, until it became clear that they had merely
broken down. The Renault wouldn't start, so I offered them a push. It
did the trick, the engine sputtered into life and they set off down the
slip road. But then, inexplicably, they started to reverse, and came all
the way back to us.
"What's the problem?" I asked.
"We want to say thank you," replied Marti One.
"Oh, that's okay."
Marti Two cupped his hand to his mouth and inhaled, imitating taking a
drag on a joint.
"Would you like to 'fume' something?"
Ala! So it wasn't only hairstyles they had in common with Marti Pellow.
I declined the offer.
"Une bière, peut-être?"
"No thanks, we're driving."
So, with friendly waves and cries of "Bonne route", we parted
company and they drove off.
"Do you think we'll ever see them again?" wondered the girls.
We would. At the next péage toll barrier, the Two Martis had been
pulled over and their car was being disembowelled by several gendarmes.
I felt awful, simultaneously guilty and not guilty. After all, if I hadn't
done them the good turn of giving them a push, they wouldn't have been
busted.
There must be a moral here. It's just that I can't work out what it is.
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Blessed Virgin Island
The airport at Tortola, the main British Virgin Island, is currently being
extended. Before too long, 777s will be able to land there and that may
well spell the beginning of the end of this island's uniquely unspoilt
character, which thrives on the extraordinary contradictions you encounter
every step of the way.
The most obvious of these is the fact that, despite the Britishness of
the islands, the currency is the US dollar. In Tortola you drive on the
left, not all that easy when using a left hand drive car, all the vehicles
being imported from the US.Virtually the entire island has a 20 mph speed
limit, enforced by some of the most uncompromising speed bumps in existence.
We stumbled by mistake into the Sugar Mill Restaurant, expecting it to
be as informal and laid back as the other eating places on the island.
"Will Sir and Madam be taking dinner with us this evening?"
enquired the flunky. The food was actually fine, but you couldn't help
thinking back to the same morning, when we had breakfasted in the adjacent
Carrot Bay Shell Museum. Egberth Donovan will cook you a breakfast so
gigantic (three huge pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon) that you couldn't
possibly hope to finish it. This will cost you five dollars, the price
which you would pay for a beer in the Sugar Mill.
Egberth will tell you that, despite the unrivalled value of what he offers,
he can't make ends meet. Why? There's one main reason. An increasing number
of visitors to the islands are choosing to stay at one of the "all-inclusive"
resorts which are beginning to spring up. Most of them prefer to remain
cocooned for their breakfast rather than walking a short distance to support
Egberth.
Just round the corner from the Shell Museum you can find one of the Caribbean's
best-known social treasures. Constructed entirely from driftwood and cardboard
and held together mainly by discarded bits of bikini, Bomba's Shack is
the ultimate den of iniquity. Its charm lies in being so unashamedly upfront
about its decadence, with "mushroom tea" (ahem) on sale, a notice
offering a free tee shirt to any woman removing her top, and a wall full
of Polaroids illustrating the many customers who have done just that.
The culprit? Bomba's "special" punch (seven eighths neat rum,
plus secret ingredients), which turns grown men and women into gibbering
wrecks.
Just along the coast, Smuggler's Cove must surely one of the most idyllically
secluded beaches anywhere in the world. To get there, you have to hire
a jeep and drive for half an hour through sub-tropical rain forest along
a track that has more potholes than surface. But it's worth it.
You certainly wouldn't expect to find a beach bar at Smuggler's Cove,
but there is one. Bob Denniston, the 82-year old proprietor, operates
a little Honesty Bar because he's not there that often and even when he
is, he'd rather sit and shoot the breeze than act as a barman. You delve
into a cobwebby back room, past a rubber shark, and help yourself to your
Carib beer from the fridge, placing your dollar bills onto a plate on
the bar. You can then go and drink it in the sea.
The people from the resorts would never find Smuggler's Cove, but you
can bet that, within five years, there'll be a metalled road leading there.
Enjoy it while you can.
Hants Chronicle
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Un, deux, Troyes
Mention the French city of Troyes to any English person and you'll probably
get the response, "I've heard of it, but I've never been there."
This is because it is efficiently by-passed by the A5 autoroute, meaning
that anyone travelling from the Channel ports to the South of France will
have seen Troyes on signposts scores of times but probably won't have
stopped off for a visit. This is an error!
To clear up the first question everyone asks, the pronunciation is as
in un, deux trois, and not as in "Helen of ...". Troyes is the
capital of the Champagne region, and large amounts of the sparkling nectar
are drunk here, even though the bottling plants and cellars are mainly
in nearby Reims.
The medieval city of Troyes is a charming place to wander round and, because
it's not nearly such a tourist magnet as it ought to be, it's pleasantly
quiet. Fairy-tale half-timbered buildings, impeccably restored, cluster
round the market place and down the numerous narrow alleyways, the best-known
of which is the "Ruelle des Chats", or "Cat Alley".
The city centre is enclosed within a network of roads which, on a map,
exactly resembles a champagne bottle cork, and is thus known as the "Bouchon
de Champagne". Within this area, you can stroll from restaurant to
creperie to bar unhindered by traffic. Just outside the central area lies
the Catholic cathedral, which dates from the twelfth century and contains
some of the most stunning stained glass windows to be found anywhere in
France. Just adjacent to the cathedral is the Museum of Modern Art, with
an ever-changing collection of top quality abstract works.
Once you have soaked up sufficient history (the Seine, incidentally, flows
through the city), Troyes presents unusual shopping opportunities. The
area's main industry is clothes manufacture, so on every corner there
are "bonneteries" selling "seconds", and also a large
number of full-scale outlets offering designer clothing at bargain prices.
Among labels manufacturing in the Troyes area are Le Coq Sportif, for
sports gear, and Le Petit Bateau, for children's clothes.
During the day, there is much to explore. Within half an hour's drive
lies the Forêt d'Orient, a vast wooded area rich in wildlife and
ideal for walking, cycling and picnicking. At the centre of the forest
is a large lake with extensive water sports facilities and even its own
artificial beach!
Dining in Troyes is extensive and traditional, with the emphasis firmly
on meat. The local speciality is Andouillettes de Troyes (coarse sausages).
And before you leave, don't forget to head up into the hills and visit
a few of the local small champagne vineyards, where you can taste the
goods and buy at bargain prices.
So next time you're on the A5, don't ignore the Troyes signs - follow
them!.
Hants Chronicle
Western Daily Press
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