Categories
Japan

Karuizawa, 2024

Clear winter skies over Hoshinoya's Onsen resort, Karuizawa

When we arrived in the resort town of Karuizawa, Priya and I had been travelling in Japan for 10 days, racing around cities on subways and taxis, dashing between destinations on Shinkansen trains, and putting our feet and legs to the test with record step counts; all of this lit by a neon blur and fuelled by non-stop Japanese cuisine.  It was high time we slowed down. 

Shinkansen train, Osaka station

A circuitous route had led us to identify Karuizawa as a stop.  Just a short journey from Tokyo, the town serves as both a summer and winter playground for the affluent.  Its elevation brings some relief from the summer heat of the capital, and in winter the same altitude brings a little more snow.  With Japan’s visitor numbers so high, a little relief from the tourist highlights was something we sought as much as the change of pace and the escape to nature. 

Neon lights even the quietest streets, here in Osaka

We arrived in mid-December with Mt Asama topped with snow.  The evening temperatures hovered just below zero, considerably cooler than our previous stops. The crisp mountain air tasted good as the chill touched our skin.  

The key feature of our chosen resort was a private onsen, a bath sourced from the natural hot springs.

Now Japan has a culture bound in respect.  One way in which that respect is reflected is in rules that define so many interactions.  So of course there were rules to be applied at an onsen.  

Before making our way to the onsen, I made sure I was well versed in the etiquette of the baths.  Never one to welcome making a mistake, the anxiety was up a notch in this environment where I did not want to be disrespectful.  We changed into the onsen pyjama outfit, wrapped ourselves in a samuae (thick dressing gown) and poked our toes into socks that facilitated wearing the flip flops that were part of the uniform (Japanese functionality at its best, these socks).

Our resort’s guide to the etiquette of their onsen

At the baths, we separated, for the baths are strictly male and female – there was and is no middle ground here.  

The most elementary of onsen rules was the demand for nudity.  

If I’ve ever stripped myself naked in front of complete strangers before, I can’t remember the occasion, so I approached this uncertain of how I’d feel.  I was glad that the changing room was vacant and with just one set of flip flops left at the entrance, knew the male bath was practically empty.  

In fact, shedding my outfit felt very natural.  I was reduced to elemental Andrew, all my physical imperfections out in the open. Exorcising my clothing was liberating, and a leveller, too.  

The next rule was to wash thoroughly before entering the communal bath – yes, a bath to prepare for a bath – so that I did, in the shower cubicles opposite the bath proper.  

The heat of the baths was already apparent in the steamy room, and, discarding a towel (another rule), I descended the four steps into the hot waters. 

The water temperature forced a sluggishness upon me.  I slowly made my way into the first bathing area and found a place to rest. 

Now it was possible to properly wallow in the environment.  The heat-induced lethargy was reinforced by dim lighting and a gentle musical ambience.  (My relaxed memory fails to recall if this was another airing of Japan’s ubiquitous music, jazz.)  The true soundtrack was the water, though.  The three taps replenishing the bath added a white noise background which was complemented by the outgoing water lapping over into hidden drains, this naturally varying as the bathers adjusted their position.  A gentle pressure from the water, into which I had sunk up to my neck, soothed further.

To record that this was relaxing is unnecessary.  It was the perfect space in which to switch off. 

Blissfully unaware of time – no watches, no clocks – I wallowed in the escape.  

Eventually the accumulation of heat overcame me, forcing a move.  I retreated to grab a small towel, doused it in cold water, folded it and placed it atop my head, as if it were some white toupe rather than a makeshift cooling device.

With this temperature adjustment I carried on for some more time, even as new people arrived.  I found the increased sharing of the space an unwelcome intrusion, not quite so switched off now.  

It was time – whatever the clock said – to finish up.  

After a cleansing shower, I dressed unhurriedly and exited.  

The warmth through my body, searching for a contrast, now felt perfectly at ease with the fresh evening air.  I let the cool wrap itself around me as I adjusted to the night’s darkness.  

A cloudless sky dotted with stars and a nearly-full moon was matched at ground level by lanterns, placed in the stream that ran between the resort’s wooden villas.  Aside from gentle stream water, falling over rocks, there was nary a sound. There was not a hint of a breeze, the stillness completing the somnolence. 

Clear winter skies over Hoshinoya’s Onsen resort, Karuizawa

Emerging to the winter night was just perfect. 

Here I found Priya, having appeared in a similarly relaxed state, chatting quietly with a fellow bather and contemplating the beauty of the environment.  

Shortly, we sauntered back to our villa, utterly at ease. 

Soon enough we would be back to the neon blur, to the crowds, to the excitement, but for now that was so far far away.  No hurry, no hurry. 

Categories
North Macedonia

Ohrid, 2023

Old Town, Ohrid, Macedonia, September 2023

It’s just a picture of a car, right?  Well, yes, it is – but there is a story to go with it. 

The car is parked in North Macedonia (hereafter denoted as Macedonia), in the town of Ohrid (“och-rid” if you will).  It is a rental car, our rental car, collected in Albania and now at rest on the cobbled streets of Ohrid’s old town, lazing nonchalantly in the afternoon sun. 

But let’s go back a little.  The previous day we – that would be Priya and I – had picked up the Merc in Tirana, the Merc pitched as an improvement from the small car that I had reserved.  (Never mind that I preferred a small car!)  Wary of what I might discover about Albanian driving I did something that I never do: took up the full insurance on the rental. A scratch would cost us not a jot.

From there it was – gasp! – out into the Albanian city traffic and mercifully soon into the quieter countryside roads that took us to lunch at Fustanella Farm (truly excellent farm-to-table food).  We drove on towards the border with Macedonia, rather taken by the scenery, all rolling hills and verdant valleys, neither of which had been included in my imagination of Albania.  There was the occasional distraction provided by outrageously dangerous overtaking moves.  “Good move, sunshine” might have been the incredulous words passing my lips as another death-defying pass was attempted approaching a blind corner.  There was no stopping the local drivers. 

Crossing the border necessitated the acquisition of a “green pass”, essentially an insurance for foreign cars in Macedonia.  Our car rental agent was a little coy on quite how this pass could be obtained – coy or ignorant.  So I was mighty glad that on the final turn towards the border we spied a pair of booths that offered to assist us.  One of them was even open.  The fun started then as the officer inside the booth refused to grant us our mandatory green pass, on account of an absence of the correct paperwork.  The reasons, being professed in Albanian, were not clear to us English speakers.  

What followed was a string of expensive calls back to the car rental company (YouRent – this is bad publicity) who then communicated with the green card officer, a kind of translation service.  It was obvious that YouRent had stuffed up.  After an hour of messing around, including a fruitless journey to the border, and multiple divergent instructions to a mysteriously absent “Sigal” office, we were granted a green pass by the man in the booth.  Added to my to do list:  a scathing online review of the service offered by the rental company, the greatest retribution possible these days. 

There was one final insult at the border, as Priya’s Indian passport yielded a “denied entry” response from one immigration agent, accompanied by a palm out “talk to the hand” manoeuvre that brooked no argument.  Perhaps she hadn’t seen a brown person before?  Fortunately, research had been carried out in advance, and one of her less ignorant colleagues conceded that actually an Indian passport holder, with the appropriate visa, could enter Macedonia. 

We both needed a drink after the unnecessary complications, but at least we were in Macedonia.  

Our destination, Ohrid, was not far down the road.  A little time to compose myself.  It had been quite a day of driving already. 

With Priya on hand as navigator, we headed for an airbnb offering wonderful views of the town’s “Como-like” lake.  Head down in the flat earth world of google maps, we unexpectedly found ourselves passing through an old stone gate and into Ohrid’s old town.  Signs seemed absent and the roads, now paved with cobblestones, narrowed and rollercoasted up and down.  In google maps we trust.  I slowed to little more than a walk as we plunged downhill, our destination within reach.  We squeezed between walls and cars that had somehow established themselves in spaces that should not have allowed a vehicle to park – but did. 

At times like these, distractions could be done without.  So it was unfortunate that I now approached an elderly lady, navigating the road towards our car with the aid of a walker.  It seems reasonable to blame her for what happened next.  

In my desire to avoid “granny” I took my eyes off the rest of the road.  Inching forward I heard a harsh scraping sound and realised that on the passenger side my mirror had clashed with a parked car.  Granny began gesticulating.  Realising the error of my ways, I swung into reverse and successfully completed a second attempt at squeezing through the tiny space between this parked car and the stone wall to my left.  By this point a second woman – some ragged looking “aunty”, dressed in grey like the grim reaper – had appeared on the scene, from somewhere, and was showing unnecessary signs of animation.  

No real damage done, as best I could tell, so we moved on, creeping forward.  Not without a touch of guilt as granny and aunty flailed their arms around behind us. 

Shortly, we found our accommodation and gratefully accepted the help of our airbnb host, Biljana, to deliver our luggage up the stairs to our room.  It did indeed have a “wonderful view” down towards the lake.  

Time for a drink?  Just about.  First up, I was glad to just relax, the hard yards of the day now done.  We sat down, relieved, and laughed a hell of a lot as we recalled the gesticulating granny and our departure from the scene.  I was feeling a little guiltier now, but we had moved on and escaped unscathed.  In truth I knew I had done more than touch the other car’s mirror, yet the deliciousness of the deceit made me laugh deeply.  Thank goodness we’d gotten away with it. 

Only now – a knock on the door.  What was this?  Wiping away the tears of laughter, I got up to answer it.  It was our host, with a grave face:  “Bring your passports.  There has been a traffic incident.”  

Laughter suspended, as if a film director had shouted “cut” to break off a scene, we searched for our passports and whispered a few words to each other – our stories had to match.  The police had tracked us down and were visiting us.  

We followed Biljana to where our Merc was parked.  Right away it was obvious why we’d been called out:  the “aunty” who had been animated at the time of the incident was by our vehicle.  There was also a rather upset gentleman and, yes, a policeman.  From above us, balconies were filled with people, keenly following the action below.  Quite an audience.  

It transpired that the gentleman was the owner of the car.  The good looking policeman – Alexander – was calm.  Grim reaper, “Aunty”, now even more animated, seemed to be pressing for harsh consequences as her arms flailed with all the vigour of an Olympic swimmer.  Biljana tried to appease her, this villain of the peace, for she didn’t wish us, her airbnb guests, to have a bad experience.  Aunty was such an interfering nobody!  She had no interest in this other than to make a name for herself.  

Priya and I pushed the line of innocence, but when the pale blue of the other car’s paint was pointed out on the Merc, it was obvious that it was much more than the mirror which my driving had struck.  The evidence incontrovertible, as driver I admitted my guilt.  

Quite what my admission would lead to was not obvious.  So now Alexander explained.  

“This is how it works in Macedonia.  The first option is that we take your drivers licence and passport for 48 hours, or maybe 72, and you appear in court to face the charge.”  This was not, in my book, an option at all – though Priya had a gleam in her eye as she considered her own possibilities, abandoning me to the courtroom as she toured Macedonia. 

“Your second option is to compensate the owner of the car.”  Some kind of payoff.  Really?  Is this legitimate?  My suspicion radar was sending out serious warnings as I braced myself for the amount of “compensation”.  A sum of Euros in at least four figures registered in my mind and my heart raced uneasily.  If this wasn’t legitimate, then perhaps the figure could be much higher. 

Alexander continued. “In this case, we estimate the damage will cost 200 to 250 Euros to repair.”  

Stupendously relieved, I maintained some sort of composure and heard the words “I will accept 200 Euros” escape from my mouth, grasping for the lowest amount possible, and grateful for its acceptance.  Hands were shaken, as I offered my apologies to the car’s owner, before fetching the 200 Euros that I had in my bag.  This, I’m sure, was a fraction of the cost for such a repair in Western Europe. 

In truth I was suffering from an absence of remorse.  As a group, we walked up the road to the police car, to sign some paperwork that would close the matter.  I couldn’t keep a straight face, my mouth curling into a snigger at the deliciousness of the situation.  Priya must have jabbed me in the ribs, for as we gathered around the police car I composed myself sufficiently well to offer a face that suggested remorse, before signing a few papers on the front bonnet of the cop car. 

At this point, another woman appeared to explain that she, the wife of the upset gentleman, was actually the owner of the car.  She explained that she had been unable to come out as she was feeding her young baby.  Yikes!  This was enough to make me genuinely regretful, with another round of apologies and hand shaking.  

The transaction complete, Alexander and the car owners made their way off.  Aunty, while looking a little smugger given that money had been extracted, never-the-less continued to thrash around.  

In any case Priya and I could now escape this unwanted scene.  Back in our room, there was only one thing to do.  We fell onto the sofa and started laughing solidly.  

Categories
Scotland

Skye, 2020

2020 – how was it for you? 

That year will forever be associated with “covid”.  Most of the world entered a state of lockdown for long periods, a lockdown of deaths and fear and loneliness and boredom – and working from home. Restrictions, that was the hallmark of 2020. 

That year blended into 2021, and across the course of that year, life slowly moved towards a more normal state, albeit one necessitating the use of face masks, as vaccines were rolled out, to the willing at least. 

So 2020 was a complete disaster? 

Perhaps our collective memories suggest it was just that, devoid of any kind of normality, endless lockdowns putting our lives on hold for 12 months.  Forgive me for correcting the narrative, but it wasn’t quite that bad, not for everyone anyway.  

In the UK, those frustrating lockdowns, with their government-enforced (but not self-imposed) rules, short-circuited the spread of the disease so well that we were afforded some freedoms, at least for short periods.  

And so it was that I came to escape to Scotland for a week in September 2020, during one of those brief moments when we were granted permission to relax, a sweet spot in an otherwise sour year. 

Scotland made sense.  Border crossing was effectively impossible (Hadrian’s Wall no longer qualified as a border), so travel was limited to the United Kingdom.  And the Highlands offered an escape from the city, for I had been surrounded by London for six months of the year.  

It wasn’t a perfect world, for sure.  I chose to take an overnight sleeper to Inverness, investing in my own cabin, and thus isolated from other travellers.  On such a journey it was a disappointment the dining car was closed, but this was hardly a privation.  Masks were required in public indoor settings, and it was necessary to keep your distance from others with the “two metre rule”.  On the plus side, travel facilities were quieter than usual, up to a point – some services were cancelled completely.  

The Highlands demands your own transport, and so I hired a car and drove in splendid isolation pausing whenever I fancied exploring the landscape a little more.  I had a sense of the landscapes from a previous visit, and now I saw them again, they seemed all the more glorious.  

Ragged coastline, shimmering lochs, earthy heather, perfect beaches, tumbling waterfalls, magnificent mountains, and all given a touch of early autumn colour.  For the most part, there was built-in social distancing, too.  It was easy to escape from humanity, into your own world of discovery, by taking an unplanned turn-off.  If not vast in scale, the Highlands at least offer plenty of space. 

Without a doubt some of my appreciation was borne of the escape from covid’s constraints, the sheer freedom of being able to go where I wanted repeatedly brought a smile to my face.  The experience was a genuine escape from the restrictions of covid life that had neutered our existence throughout the year. 

For the most part, my journey was unplanned.  However, on Skye I was drawn to The Old Man of Storr.  Driving in to Portree, a first sighting of the distant rock formation brought a rush of excitement, a feeling similar to the first time I’d spied the Sydney Harbour Bridge or the twin towers of the World Trade Center. 

So early on a Saturday morning in September, I made my way to the site’s car park – a popular spot, it was already filling up – grabbed my kit and started walking.  There’s no way this could be described as challenging, but it is quite a steep climb.  

Looking towards the Old Man of Storr from the Portree road

There are numerous well worn trails to lead a walker upward, past sequences of tumbling boulders.  Unapologetically I charged past the slow movers, eager to get to the views at the top before it was too busy.  

Reaching that goal, there was a kind of natural platform from which the scene unfolded in front of your eyes.  The sharp pinnacles of the Old Man of Storr almost burst from the rising green turf.  Beyond are the waters around the islands of Raasay and Rona, and in the background are the shapely curves of what may be the Cuillin hills.

Among those who had reached this high point there was a communal sense of achievement and admiration of the view, in a year when “communal” seemed to denote illegal.  Strangers chatted, and swapped phones with each other, in order that adequate photographs of this spot included themselves.  This felt like a treasonous act, one threatening to bring covid upon us.  Yes, I recall passing my unsanitised phone onto a stranger, and in turn receiving theirs, without a thought for the implied risk of virus-passing, a consideration that had fearfully consumed our lives through the year.  It was as if life was normal.  Our transmission fears seemed foolish. Here was more evidence of the escapism that this trip had offered – and I wasn’t the only one enjoying the liberation. 

The combination of this communal sense, the absence of covid fear, the joy of the outdoors, and the spectacular view make this picture the one that takes me back to this trip more than any other, an image that reminds me that 2020 wasn’t a complete washout.

Within a couple of days I was back in London, Skye far behind me.  During my week away England had reintroduced additional restrictions as covid case numbers increased once more, with Scotland following not long after.  I really had been very lucky to find the perfect sweet spot, the absolute high of a very strange year. 

Categories
USA

Glacier Bay, 2002

Glacier Bay National Park, Alaska
Glacier Bay National Park, Alaska

Saturday May 25th, 2002 might well be the most rewarding day of travel I’ve ever enjoyed, things falling into place to create a cornucopia of experience.  

At its heart, the day’s focus was Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park, the subject of the picture, with a spectacular flight over its brilliant white expanses. 

But there was much more to this day than that exhilarating highlight. My diary records the details, though I’ve re-lived them in my mind numerous times since. I have to share the tale of this day. 

Crucially, the day was prefaced by a good long sleep, always a strong base for a busy day.  I was staying in a bed and breakfast in the town of Gustavus, in Alaska’s southeast, and on this day roused myself from bed at 6:30am.  The B&B’s facilities included bicycles, and with the sun beaming brightly, I grabbed one and headed off for a ride, not knowing nor caring where I would end up.  The fresh air was stimulating and I found myself at a pier running into the water.  The view across the water was a sequence of distant snow-capped mountains.  Similarly enjoying the view was a bald eagle – America’s national bird – patiently watching from the pier, though perhaps with more malicious, prey-hunting intent, than I.  I was buzzed already. 

Bald eagle, outside Gustavus

Refreshed by the outdoor adventure, the bicycle took me back to my B&B, where I joined my travelling buddy Paul for breakfast.  A solid cooked breakfast, backed up by muesli and toast, was just what the doctor ordered.  

With time to kill before our flight, Paul, who had done most of the legwork in getting this Alaska visit off the ground, and I then headed to Mount Fairweather Golf Course, a little nine hole affair.  While Paul was the superior sportsman, I was game for a challenge, so as we collected clubs and golf balls, all done on an honesty system, we agreed to a small wager on the result.  Naturally the course had a backdrop of snowy peaks, gleaming under the sunshine, a unique setting.  As Paul and I reached the ninth hole, scores were level – and somehow I finished better.  This was a sweet result, a first victory for me in our sporting contests, an achievement not to be taken lightly. 

Victory at Mt. Fairweather Golf Course

In due course, we found ourselves at Gustavus’s tiny airport, where we weighed in to allow Brad, our pilot, to understand the fuel requirement for the Skagway Air Service’s Piper Cherokee.  There was just Brad, Paul and I onboard for this specially chartered journey.  

Coming on this Alaska trip, I had felt some trepidation about my forthcoming first experiences on a plane this size (a six seater).  Reaching Gustavus required those first small plane flights, a double hop from Juneau.  My stomach was in a knot as I climbed on board – the interior looked for all the world like a cheap car from the early 1970s, and was just as fatigued as something that old.  How on earth could this thing be trusted?  Of course, I survived those short trips, and that experience meant I was relatively relaxed as I boarded this flight to Skagway. 

There were no guarantees that we would be detoured over the national park, as we had requested, but on a lovely flying day the pilot was granted permission to head in that direction.  

As we climbed into the air in another flimsy vehicle, the view ahead became a never-ending expanse of white.  Everywhere you looked were mountain peaks, universally snow-topped, and slashes of sheer rocks falling away from the peaks.  Bright washes of snow dressed much of the National Park, and then there were the glaciers themselves, serrated textures indicating the direction of their slow progress.  

The scenery was breathtaking. The highest peaks were above us, on either side, as our pilot banked left and right to give us a better view.  For a time we were alone in that space, as there was not a sign of man’s presence on the ground below us, lending a great intimacy.   As I wrote in my diary of the time it was “a crazy feeling to be so alone in this little plane, somewhat at the mercy of nature as we chug along with nothing but nature to contemplate outside our windows.”  It was, frankly, intimidating to be so embraced by nature’s raw beauty.

Flying through Glacier Bay National Park

In the presence of this beautiful and engulfing landscape I lost all fear of the light plane.  Even as we hit a bumpy patch – preempted by Brad’s gentle warning – I found nothing to cause me to break into a sweat. 

Inevitably, the majestic views demanded photographs be taken, so I got very snap happy.  Only later did I realise that I’d had a bit of a nightmare, the bright white of the snow fooling me and my camera into over-exposing badly.  

And in time, Brad turned the Piper Cherokee’s nose towards Skagway, the National Park receded behind us and we found our way to the very narrow strip of the town’s airport.  Paul and I weren’t the only ones who had enjoyed the flight – Brad too clearly appreciated the scenery.  What a job he had.  I was left contemplating whether I could actually become such a pilot, such an about face as to be preposterous. 

Skagway Air Service Piper Cherokee, Skagway Airport

The rest of the day could not sustain quite such highs as that flight, but it was still fun.  

A beer from the Skagway Brewing Company kept the buzz alive in what seemed like a friendly town.  Then we hit the Klondike Highway north, for more down-to-earth yet still impressive scenery.  Crossing the border to Canada’s Yukon Territory, there was the oddity of the Carcross Desert, sand surrounded by snowy mountains.  On most other days these landscapes would have demanded attention; not today. 

By the time we reached Whitehorse, gold rush country, the best of the day was long behind us. Then again, the heights – both literal and figurative – of the flight over Glacier Bay National Park had set such a highwater mark for “best” that anything to follow would pale in comparison. 

From the early morning bike ride, through the golfing victory, to the Glacier Bay flight, and then the journey into Canada, there might be no other travel day that has offered me quite so much satisfaction. Living the dream, I was.

Categories
France

Bullecourt, 2000

Cemetery on the Western Front
World War I cemetery on the Western Front

Sombre: that’s primarily what I feel when I see this picture.  Regardless, it’s become one of my favourites, the subject matter and the image complementing one another in a way that few snaps do.  

The image is simple, largely just farm fields, with a bright bar of sky above a perfectly straight horizon.  A diagonal break between the green field and its earthy neighbour, leads the eye to the focus of the shot, a distant cemetery.  The plain military cemetery contains a row of four trees, almost bare in early Spring, with neat sections of plain gravestones, and a memorial cross at front.  The cemetery is as understated as the image it is part of. These few elements combine to produce something almost abstract, as if you might see it on the walls of the Tate Modern. 

I’m not certain of the precise location, but it is in the proximity of Bullecourt, France, which is to say it is not far from the Western Front.  This ground, and the fields around it, must have seen many horrors in World War One, now impossible to discern from the neatly ploughed turf. The picture is therefore both an abstraction and an abstract. 

There are literally dozens of such war cemeteries in the region, dotted across the map.  They are of different sizes, and represent different nationalities: French, British, Australian, German.  Such was the scale and speed of loss that cemeteries were created on demand if need be, where the dead lay fallen. 

My grandfather had fought in World War One, among other locations at Bullecourt, where bravery led to his being decorated with the Military Medal.  He had passed away before I was born, taking with him memories of what must have been horrific days – he rarely shared his feelings or recollections with others, so my mum told me.  I suppose these days, we’d ascribe this to PTSD; in 1918, the ongoing mental impact of trauma was disregarded.  What did survive was a large catalogue of documents that told a story of his experiences in The Great War.  

I’d read some of that history and was horrified by the catalogue of challenges in a tour that saw fighting in Turkey, France and Belgium, abruptly ended by gunshot wounds in 1917.  The challenges weren’t just military either.  Along the way the military record shows that he suffered months in hospital for “diarrhoea and debility”, diphtheria, gastroenteritis and appendicitis.  

It is almost impossible to imagine the suffering for it has been reduced to the briefest, abbreviated terms (“Adm. S.W. BACK SEVERE”), yet I wince at the pain implied. 

In 2000, armed with information from those documents, I took a journey to France and explored some of the locations of the Western Front, where my grandfather had fought.  On Anzac Day I stopped at the Australian National Memorial in Villers-Bretonneux to commemorate his experiences, and those of many others. 

The area was now filled with farms set on rolling fields, and somewhat featureless; there was an absence of drama.  As it can in the countryside, nothing much felt very hurried, and this brought a sense of peace.  Standing atop the Australian National Memorial, looking out across the farming fields that stretched for miles under blue skies, it was almost impossible to believe what this countryside had played host to 80-odd years before. 

But ghosts of the past remained.  Driving along the country roads, every now and then my eye caught sight of something out of place.  Usually this was another cemetery, or memorial, gravestones often discreetly tucked away behind a protective row of trees, sandwiched between farms.  The War was ubiquitous, yet never in your face.  I wondered if this discretion was because the locals wanted it to be forgotten, to be able to move on from this dark past.  

Perhaps because of these subtle but persistent reminders, driving here was sobering, with thoughts turning to my grandfather’s experiences and the descriptions found in war literature – at odds with the quiet I felt as I travelled, well protected, in my air-conditioned, automatic hire car.  This is the essence, I think, of the photograph – peaceful, though with a subtle yet clear reference to a vicious past. 

My journey was soundtracked by Elliot Smith’s just released “Figure 8” album.  “Wouldn’t mama be proud?” questions the singer on one track, accompanied by music far too jolly for this setting really. However, as I drove through the Western Front I contended that, yes, my mother would be proud that I’d travelled to this turf, to acknowledge her father’s deeds, and I was uplifted by that thought in spite of everything that this environment signified.  I was proud, too, to recall the citation given for the Military Medal, “for conspicuous courage and devotion to duty,” and of the grandfather who had earned it. 

Each time I look back at this photograph from Anzac Day 2000, it is therefore with a mix of emotions. There is a sombre feeling evoked by the memorial. With it is a little pride, as I recall the spirit of my grandfather, and, finally, a comforting sense of peace, of the past laid to rest. 

Categories
Denmark

Copenhagen, 2022

Vegetable season, Noma
Vegetable season, Noma

Increasingly food has become something that has drawn me to travel; not just as a way to connect with a different culture, but as an attraction in its own right, the very reason to take a trip somewhere. 

This picture represents exactly that kind of experience, a trip to Copenhagen created solely for the purpose of experiencing the food of Noma. 

In 2021 Noma was named the world’s number one restaurant, a coveted title, and, I decided, this was a place to visit.  Such places are in high demand, and so there was the usual rigamarole, and good fortune, required to secure a place at a table.  In Noma’s case, they are good enough to offer single diners a seat at a shared table, an opportunity frustratingly unavailable in many other high end restaurants.  

I flew out on a Wednesday night after work, suffering all the little annoyances that airports and plane travel can muster, and arrived at my Copenhagen hotel at 3am.  I had just 36 hours in town, but couldn’t muster a hedonistic late night drink.  

After a few hours of sleep, poise and energy was regained by the invigoration of being in a foreign place, and I meandered around town to feel the Danish insouciance.  Dinner at Noma was set for 17:00 later that same day, and I walked there from my hotel, past the locals sunbathing by the canals, while taking care to give the cyclists space.  The steamy heatwave, as it was described by one local I met, was certainly being enjoyed by the Danes. 

Upon arrival at the restaurant – there are no fancy signs to guide you, so I was welcomed from across the road – I walked through a welcoming greenhouse and was offered a pre-dinner drink (tea or a little beer) as I met my fellow diners. 

This tiny aperitif completed, we were directed towards the end of the garden where the scene depicted awaits you.  The decorated table is backgrounded by a further section of the garden, giving an earthy feel, and there’s a slice of the restaurant proper on the right.  This shot was taken with my pixel phone, and so it has done its best to optimise the scene, which is why there is an almost “golden hour” tone to the colours, though the time was much too early for that.  That digitally enhanced feel of approaching sunset has either directed, or matched, my emotions when I look back upon the scene. 

This table said loads:  a colourful selection of fresh, seasonal produce from the garden (and beyond? I didn’t check), artfully yet casually arranged, which said everything about what was to be found through the nearby door.  It was alluring. 

Summer salad
Summer salad, second course of Noma’s 2022 vegetable season

Summer is “vegetable season” at Noma, this I knew in advance.  Yet I hadn’t appreciated that this meant today’s menu would be an entirely vegetarian selection of food across 15 courses.  Prior knowledge would in no way have changed my desire to be here; in practice the uniqueness of a vegetarian meal made the dining that followed all the more memorable. 

This is not a food blog (I’ll leave that to one of my fellow solo diners, Dave, and his “Eating Really Well” blog) so I won’t expound on what arrived on the plates that were placed in front of me, other than to say it was everything I had hoped for:  diverse, imaginative, colourful and tasty.  

Exiting the restaurant to a balmy evening, under a dusky sky, and with a wine pairing also consumed, presented an opportunity to discuss with my diners what we’d enjoyed about Noma.  We were universally in raptures. 

Marigold tempura
Marigold tempura, eighth course of Noma’s 2022 vegetable season. The side is an egg yolk with whisky.

And then it was gone.  The four of us went our separate ways, disappearing into the Copenhagen night.  

I should have been content.  In fact my mind was weighed down by an uncertain melancholy.  Only a couple of days later, back in London, did those thoughts distil into something clearer.  Noma, and those following days, denoted the end to a very happy summer.  A comedown sadness had fallen upon me. 

With the restrictions of 2020 and 2021 behind me – behind us – the northern summer of 2022 had blossomed into some kind of wonder.  Friends made surprise visits to London.  There was music to see, shows to enjoy.  Cricket – that other favourite thing of mine – could be conducted and watched without restriction.  There were great restaurants to eat at; outdoor bars to be sampled; multiple trips to the continent.  In short, life could now be lived, and lived it was.  

However, that sultry evening in Copenhagen seemed to amount to the beginning of the end of summer.  I draw an analogy with the storms that had delayed my departure from Heathrow, and given me a rough ride over to Denmark, the heat and tension in the air getting too much to be contained.  The energetic highs of the thunder and lightning were followed by something calmer, more settled, a come down.  An easing of that summer intensity. 

The weather cooled to something more mundane, the days shortened; it was as if the good times were done.  Cricket season was coming to an end. A couple of days later a big part of the summer spell was broken when another friend departed London after a visit that had lifted my spirit further.  Bit by bit summer was unravelling, and I was left feeling sad – when I deserved to be exhilarated.  

Now I look back at the golden glow of this photo and fondly recall Noma as the highpoint of an incredible summer.  Yet simultaneously I can feel the disappointment that this meal signified, a climax from which there could only be retreat.  The way the brain works can be cruel, can’t it? 

Categories
Costa Rica

Tortuguero, 2022

Howler Monkeys, mother and child
Howler Monkeys, mother and child, anxiously monitoring a predator

A 5:30am wake up is not my idea of fun, particularly when on holiday.  But there I was, at 5:45am, preparing to hop on a small boat for a tour of Costa Rica’s Eastern coast canals, in the vicinity of Tortuguero. A brief shower had cleared and it was already warm.

As it happened, I’d been woken around 5am, by the deep howls of nearby Howler Monkeys, named with unerring accuracy, a reminder of why I wanted to be up and about so early. 

The only passenger in the narrow boat, it was hard not to feel sorry for my guide, Luis; without me he could be having a lie in.  “It’s ok, I’m a morning person,” he confessed as the two of us set off.  Costa Rica, in the main, seemed to work that way.  

Wildlife, that’s why I was on this boat – for the second morning in a row.  Before the day heats up, while feed is available, is the time to be out to see the animals in their own domain.  

Tortuguero Canal
Tortuguero Canal, so green, so blue

The canals are home to caiman, crocodiles, and a variety of birds, and the tropical jungle – so green! – that lines the waterway is the habitat for much more fauna.  Most colourful, most iconic might be the keel-billed toucan, with its rainbow bill, and that was an obvious subject for a photograph. 

Luis guided the boat here and there, seeking out monkeys and toucans at my request, but keeping his eyes open for something else, slowing the boat and disabling the engine, as he needed.  With the engine shut off, the sky’s blue was reflected in the water, and the gentle sounds of the waterway closed in on you. 

As we travelled, I heard some more from Luis. 

“Early in the morning, I like to take a run along the beach.” 

Fair play, can’t blame you. 

“One time, I was out doing that, and a young jaguar appeared from the jungle.  It was looking ready to play, quite happy, expecting me to participate.”  I knew for sure:  no jaguar cub is ever far from its mother.  

Luis continued:  “I backed myself away from the cub, and into the ocean.”  This was no guarantee of safety, as I’d already learnt that jaguars can swim, sometimes crossing the canals this way.  “As I stood, waist deep in the sea, the jaguar mother appeared, picked up the cub by the neck and retreated back into the jungle.”  Danger averted, heart rate a little higher, his morning run continued.  

Only weeks before, conducting a night walk through the jungle, Luis had been attacked by the very colourful and venomous coral snake.  His comments somewhat downplayed the event – “It didn’t really bite me.”  I was left to speculate what had led to the scar by his right eye.  

Early morning boat
Early morning boat along Costa Rica’s Eastern canals

Sharp eyes kept finding birds and reptiles discreetly hidden among the green of the jungle.  The wildlife largely ignored us in the boat, allowing me to take more than a few photos. 

Then Luis’s sharp ears detected a new sound, and he excitedly reported that this repeated, high pitched sound was the Howler Monkey’s alert signal.  This, he explained, was infrequently heard in these parts.  For all Luis’s experience, he was animated by the call. We rushed towards the trees from which this strident tone was coming, and then the boat was calmed.  

We could clearly see two monkeys. Binoculars revealed that each was carrying a very young monkey; the young ones clung to their mothers, realising something was amiss.  There was an unmistakable urgency in the animals’ cry, and they gazed intently towards the ground, eyes unblinking.  Their warning tone continued, unabated. Fear was audible and visible.

The monkey’s foe was, most likely, a jaguar, prowling at the base of the tree, and capable of climbing to find a victim.  Harpy Eagles are also a predator, and can navigate through the trees to take a monkey.  We could see neither – but it was very clear that something was there, and threatening. 

This was no zoo showing, no playful, screeching monkey – it was nature at its most authentic, its most instinctive, in the ongoing struggle for survival. You could feel it. 

Howler Monkey, mother and child
Howler Monkey, mother and child, anxiously monitoring a predator

In time, Luis chose to move on – we could hear more monkeys further along, echoing the warning sound – to experience more of what the waterways might reveal.  A manatee, perhaps, a tiger heron, squirrel monkeys.  As it happened, nothing that morning could surpass witnessing, feeling, the howler monkeys’ fear. 

The photographs I have don’t record the sounds, nor really do they have much hope of highlighting the tension in the air, or capturing the fear in the eyes of the protective mothers.  Hell, they’re not even technically proficient. Yet seeing one of these images will always return me to that early morning, on a stretch of Costa Rican canal, and its visceral feeling of nature coming alive.

Categories
United Kingdom

Glastonbury, 1995

The Stone Circle, Glastonbury '95

In the early ’90s, in distant Australia, it was clear that Glastonbury was the pinnacle of festivals, its line-up a cornucopia of artists, with an unsurpassed reputation.  Once I found myself in England, it was something that I sought to experience.

In ‘95, the year when Brit Pop was at it’s pinnacle, the opportunity arose, as I joined a group of friends heading to the West Country.  We gathered in Bristol for the journey to the festival site on a Thursday in late June, with the forecast promising perfect weather across the weekend.  Backpacks were loaded up with tents and sleeping bags, and everything else that might help us enjoy the four days ahead of us.

Approaching the gates – we had tickets after all, though vulnerabilities in the security fence meant that it was no obstacle if you didn’t – we were intercepted by a member of the Gideons, correctly surmising that salvation would be required for many after their visit to the festival, which surely had it’s seedy side.  I slowed respectfully, unsure how to deal with this man of God.

Gideon: “Would you like to take a free bible with you today?”  Frankly, I wasn’t keen.

My friend Gavin: “No thank you, I’ve got a much bigger one of those at home!”  A blatant lie.

The swiftness of the response, delivered with a bright swagger, and a smile that would make a Mormon blush, seemed to set the tone for what lay ahead. Cast aside those doubts and enjoy.

Worthy Farm was massive, much bigger than I’d expected, and it took quite some time to explore.  Aside from the many music stages, there was a lot of other stuff going on, making this quite a social spectacle, too. There was a naturally relaxed atmosphere, perhaps aided by the ingestion of the gentle fumes that drifted across the site.

The spiritual focus of the site was the Stone Circle, part of the “Sacred Space”, a natural gathering place for festival goers, its location also allowing one to truly grasp the scale of the festival.  

That’s where this photograph originates.  Of course in 1995, we didn’t all have mobile phones in our pockets, and my proper camera was left securely at home, so this was snapped on a little disposable. 

Regardless, the blurry image takes me back to all the good things of that visit to Glastonbury: the four days of shirts-off weather, the sea of relaxed people, the fields of tents, the company of good friends, and some fantastic live performances – think Pulp, Portishead, Jeff Buckley, The Cure, Oasis, PJ Harvey.  Good times. 

It was a shame when Monday morning arrived – at 4am – with an escape to catch a fast train from Bristol back to London, and, via a quick clean up at home, into work.  Within hours, I realised I was spent, and slunk home to sleep off my sins.  There was no way a Gideon Bible was saving me. 

Categories
United Kingdom

London, 2003

Concorde pilots after their final flight, London

There are several strands to this picture, for it brings together happy personal memories, sad farewells and the end of an icon.  Taken at Heathrow Airport, shortly after arriving from New York, it pictures the two pilots who have just flown me (and close to 100 others) across the Atlantic on Concorde.  

Firstly, there are the personal memories.  

I had long been fascinated by this very different plane, something triggered by Concorde’s appearance on the cover of a Ladybird book that I cherished as a child growing up in distant Australia. It was obvious from its appearance that this was something very new and quite unique – and rather fast. Much later, once I found myself living in London, this manifested itself in many a skyward gaze as the unique delta wing twisted overhead on it’s approach to Heathrow.  By this time I appreciated the plane for it’s elite, luxury status as much as for its sleek, clean lines and mach two speed. 

The Ladybird Book of Aircraft, 1972 edition

Along the way, this inspiration generated an aspiration to fly Concorde

For years such an opportunity seemed beyond reach, however as life changed and opportunities broadened, a supersonic journey became feasible.  In 2000, I had a Concorde booking in place only for the aeroplane to suffer its first fatal accident, not far from Paris.  Grainy video footage of the plane’s burning fuselage trying to gain altitude in the moment before it’s crash haunted me until Concorde’s flight safety certificate was revoked. My supersonic seat was downgraded to a business class 747; some comedown.

Fortunately, Concorde rose from those ashes, only for economics to lead to the announcement of the termination of its service.  And so in October 2003 I finally found myself on Concorde, joined by my girlfriend, for a flight from New York back to London.  

It was everything I had hoped for, starting in the lounge at JFK.  Thereafter there was an incredibly powerful acceleration to take-off, very fine food and drink, a super high and fast journey that was as smooth as any I’d encountered, all delivered with excellent service.  (Faster, higher, stronger – citius, altius, fortius – briefly, I was living the Olympic motto.)  

From the thrill of taking flight, through the near endless eating and drinking, the mandatory visit to the bathroom (small), the photo in front of the mach speed indicator, and the final grab for souvenirs (somewhere at home I have a “Safety on board Concorde” card), the experience, well, it flew by, finishing far too quickly.  Those few hours remain some of the happiest of my life.  The saying “the destination not the journey” never rang truer.

On the way out, there was one final treat, a chance to look in on the Concorde cockpit, all lights and dials. Still in their seats were the two pilots, waiting to fulfil their post-flight paperwork, compliantly allowing passengers such as myself to peer in at their world. 

Captain Weidner

And here’s the second thing that comes to mind.  In the course of our approach to Heathrow, it had been announced that this journey was the last as a Concorde pilot for captain Ron Weidner, on the left.  Looking at the picture I think it’s clear to see the sadness in his eyes, that this is a farewell that he doesn’t want.  His co-pilot looks towards Weidner, understanding the meaning of these moments, the last in the driver’s seat of a supersonic airliner.  His own turn was not far off, too, with just three weeks left of service. 

While I had dreamt of Concorde for many years, and experienced it on this one beautiful occasion, the flight crew had lived the supersonic life for much longer.  From everything I have read, there was almost universal love from the BA staff that flew the plane.  Shutting down the service must have felt heart breaking for those that operated her with pride. 

In these moments of reflection, it must have been something of an ignominy to have a line up of well oiled passengers poking their heads into this unique space – some taking photos, too! 

I was pleased to discover that the BBC also liked my image, including it in a series of Concorde tributes, which you can still see here.

Of course, the feelings of both myself and pilot Weidner derive from the same place:  this was the end of an era for an icon. 

Most things will have their own lifespan of usefulness, a value that is usually superseded by a newer, improved replacement. I’ve lived and thrived on new technology, and am happy that the application of it drives human progress. But this was different. Although Concorde was, after 30 years of flying, in some ways outdated with its analog controls and environment-abusing gas guzzling, perhaps even it’s “greed is good” elite ethos, it was not being replaced by something superior – instead flight would literally slow to less than half the speed with any of its alternatives, including the 747 which was similarly aged. 

The vast challenges of supersonic passenger flight had been met in the co-operation that yielded Concorde’s iconic design.  It felt regressive to turn back the clock on such an achievement.  And that quite simply leaves me feeling a little sad every time my eyes pass across this image. 

However, the overwhelming feeling this picture brings me is joy. I am immensely pleased that I had the opportunity to fly Concorde, and will always recall the thrill it brought me.

Categories
South Africa

Soweto, 1997

Gathering around a water tap, Soweto, 1997

Recently I shared this photo with someone of a younger generation, and was surprised by a cringing response that asked why I would take such a picture. 

The photo was taken in Soweto, a “township” that forms part of the South African city of Johannesburg.  Soweto was a name that I knew was significant in the history of the country’s apartheid regime. 

Visiting South Africa in 1997 – my first trip to the continent – I was keen to learn more about all aspects of the country, including the black South African experience, though not sure quite how I might achieve some of that.  A little research revealed that minibus visits to Soweto were being operated, affording visitors who dared an opportunity to see a little of the township for themselves. This was just what I was after, so I joined a small group, under the direction of a local guide. 

We were shown a series of historic locations in the township – for the most part, historic for their connection with resistance to apartheid, and the battles fought against this injustice.  There was too much disturbing history, recent history.  Peter Gabriel’s song “Biko” had made me aware of the case of Steve Biko, but of course there was more. 

Of course, South Africa’s apartheid regime came to an end in 1991, culminating in the election of Nelson Mandela in 1994.  This lead to an influx of (white) South Africans to London, several whom I came across.  At a very basic level, Australians saw their fellow antipodeans as peers, existing in much the same place on the world stage.  For one thing, the two nations slogged it out on the cricket field with ferocity, while the Saffas had triumphed in the ‘95 Rugby World Cup, taking the crown from Australia. 

Laneway, Soweto

And yet being shown around Soweto presented something quite different.  The history was one thing – perhaps recent changes meant that one could look past that – but the present was another thing altogether.  Much of the township seemed to be a shanty town, homes constructed of cast-offs, crudely formed of corrugated iron and wood.  We stepped into one home, and it was a tiny, spartan affair.  

The startling scene in the photograph captured another reality:  here were members of several families gathered around a tap, which it was explained was one of the few places where running water was available for many.  So this single tap was used for all sorts of cleaning, supported food preparation and provided drinking water across many, many homes.  

Gathering around a water tap, Soweto

In Australia, running water to the home was a given.  Clearly this part of South Africa could not be seen as a peer of Australia – it was like the third world. More pointedly, it was the black South African community which had been left behind, with similar townships across the country reflecting a similar experience.  I was taken aback. 

Somehow the locals smiled, with nary a hint of their pain.  Perhaps it was so ingrained.  

Having discovered this truth, it was difficult to avoid feeling like a voyeuristic intruder, especially when stepping into that tiny home, or pausing for a photo opp with some young children who were willing to pose for a picture.  Yet there seemed to be a keenness that the state of affairs be properly represented to the outside world.  So I took a few photos, photo-journalism style, to record what I saw.  Apartheid may have left the building, but its spirit was well and truly living on in economic deprivation. 

Shamed a little by my use of an intrusive camera, in my white skin I was even more ashamed to be a representative of the people that had instituted a system that continued to influence a disturbing blot on the lifestyle and opportunities of black South Africans.  For all the good times I enjoyed in my three weeks travelling the country – from the wildlife of Kruger National Park to the magnificent setting of Cape Town – this disparity repeatedly stood out.   

Nearly a quarter of a century has passed since.  I wonder whether much has changed?