Vung Tau and Saigon

Vung Tau – Day 22

 Vung Tau was off on another tangent – a pleasant seaside town with a different vibe. The peninsula is divided into two distinct areas – my side attracted locals and tourists while the other catered for well-heeled Saigon weekenders. Most of the Vietnamese here were consumers like myself – in contrast to those serving tourists on the Mui Ne strip. As such, foreigners were something of an inconvenience for the hard work presented by our mutual misunderstandings. No sign of the backpacker crowd existed on the streets, beach or, packed seaside restaurants – for once the international set were my seniors rather than a generation younger, but I was yet to stumble across their nocturnal lairs.     

I had checked in to the one budget place advertised locally, a family-run hotel where all the staff treated me royally. I’d inquired about a map and was brought one along with a plate of tropical fruit (including a dragon fruit) and my first sight of a knife as a utensil. The young man that brought it promised to help me ‘in any way’. In a week, we’d have been blood brothers. Even here, I don’t recall meeting any other tourists let alone one carrying a copy of the Lonely Planet. I rather liked that. A few Vietnamese seemed to be living on the floors below but we never came face to face. I had a view of a giant Buddha from my private balcony – his rival Jesus (slightly larger than his celestial cousin in Rio) lurked nearby.

To reach my hotel, I’d wisely accepted the offer of a man who’d possibly been driving the bus from Mui Ne. He saw me dawdling about the bus station without a home to go to while squinting at my guidebook map. He spoke to me via his phone. ‘I have two flying motors,’ it explained, before adding as an afterthought ‘I don’t eat eyes.’ I was glad and jumped aboard his moped. Aside from the grasping old man in a rickshaw in Hanoi, every ride since has been worth taking. It’s unlikely I’d have found my delightful hotel alone, or without considerable effort.

For dinner, the jeopardy was increased by the lack of an English translation on the street restaurant menu, but I lucked out with a wonderful fish and a blazing green chili sauce. An old waiter placed a spoon in my hands to avoid watching me eat rice with chopsticks any longer. I was overdressed in long strides, boots, and jacket. In London, a spring snow was settling.

I spent the morning overthinking. Old themes returned to haunt me hooking up with distant near-forgotten cousins. Emotionally, it felt like the equal and opposite response to my soaring mood of several days earlier – the anti-node to the happy node of the wavelength. For several hours, I ruminated deeply – eyeballing the looming black dog rather than evading it.  

I felt forced to lunch in the shade after withering in the morning sun in the humid back streets. It had been snowing back home but it was too hot to be out today.

On a note of spiritual purity, I hiked up the many steps to the statue of Jesus after a long walk in the sun around the curve of the bay. A dozen school kids puffed past me at a canter – their quest seemingly more physical than religious. On the way home, I diverted towards a giant reclining Buddha on a pagoda that cascaded down the slopes with a series of colourful larger than life scenes recreated by scattered collections of statues. I followed it down to the foot of the front beach close to home – relieved it didn’t wind down onto the back beach on the far side of the peninsula. Before sundown, I took a moto with a cheery chap to a lighthouse – one of the few other local landmarks. Many walked but I had little desire to add another 5km to my overheated daytime jaunts. From its lofty perch, I saw the ‘other side’ where Saigon weekenders mass.

That evening, I chose a restaurant which I mistook for another I’d visited previously. The woman I thought was a waitress greeted me with a questioning hostility that suggested she wasn’t. In answer, I told her I wanted dinner, an ambition she treated with clear suspicion. She handed over a menu grudgingly, while explaining the situation to two colleagues with low cut tops. Around now, I realised that it wasn’t the place I knew and that the hostesses around me were unwilling waitresses. But the view (of the street) was fine. Beneath me in the garden, an elderly white man dined alone, while a mixed group of Vietnamese noisily caroused. Inside a couple of younger white men played pool and pondered their options. The seafood and vegetable curry was excellent despite the profit margins being higher on its other product lines. I had no extras bar the beer.

‘No boat to Saigon’, I was told at reception, so I settled for their suggestion of a luxury limousine. I didn’t need a limousine, obviously, and imagined it might be more like a luxury mobile prison. Still, for 200,000 dong, it was probably comparable in price to a bus ticket without the stress of the station babble.

But during a final walk towards the unexplored hinterland, I stumbled serendipitously upon a jetty for a hydrofoil and bought a ticket on impulse. My hosts were presumably discussing the ferries being cancelled by the strong winds. I cancelled my limo.

After yesterday’s gloomy introspection, I felt much cheerier and invigorated. I rose soon after six and was trekking to the Golden Buddha before the sun regained its spite. At the pagoda, I met a welcoming caretaker, who insisted I kept my sandals on before entering, but I removed them anyway to balance the karma of my inappropriate shorts elsewhere. Lots of dogs cheerfully barked at me in a manner both friendly and territorial. I had the place to myself and from beneath the giant golden belly, I spied the gaunt grey profile of Jesus atop a distant hill.

From there, I went to my new local breakfast place – the one that looks like a hostess bar (but isn’t) for eggs benedict. I was trending towards luxury European food. On the way, I waved cheerily towards its doppelganger where several of the ladies reciprocated with a warm salute. I shaded out the midday heat at the hotel where I worked on my radio pieces.

For all its ambivalent reputation, I felt more relaxed here than anywhere else in the country. Mui Ne offered luxury in solitude or international partying during another season. The sensory overload of the polluted big cities drove me out and in Dalat I’d neglected to spend more time in the beauty spots beyond the city limits. Hoi An was seductive in all it offered but its purpose revolved around commerce and was no place to dawdle. It was strange to feel this way here as I had little to offer the inhabitants. I didn’t encounter grizzled ageing barflies looking for cheap young women and booze though I wandered past most of these shadowy cloistered haunts, while the natives had jobs and lives that required no foreign sponsorship. Perhaps the lack of backpackers made me more relaxed.   

At sunset, I paddled in the sea amid warmly smiling locals.

For dinner, I treated myself to Bistro 9, the recommended French restaurant. It was my last night, after all, and I’d have been disappointed going anywhere else. I vaguely recall a cocktail, wine, and a risotto, and using all the bread in the basket to mop up the sauce. It’s not so far from my younger self stocking up on the menu de la jour in a Parisian brasserie, but while my budget hasn’t dramatically risen in the intervening decades, I’m happy – with better credit – to be repeating many of the experiences.

Several of the waiting staff enthusiastically helped me with my Vietnamese. Though we shared an alphabet, it was fascinating to hear how much difference could be conjured from it. I amused them. It was worth the floundering effort for this response alone. One waitress was sad I came alone despite reassurances of my contentment. I exchanged a few friendly words with the French chef, but didn’t join the conversation of the wrinkling sun-bleached European ex-pats idling the evening away on subjects of international business. They were my culture and generation, but I preferred to bond with the happy youngsters. A gulf lay between these white chiefs and the Vietnamese, and I felt only enthusiasm for the latter. I had no idea what my peers made of my happy chirruping.

 Saigon – Day 25

 The hydrofoil terminal lacked a waiting room, visible staff, or form of communication. Hence the air of confusion amongst the milling passengers seeking clues about the journey. At departure time, we emerged tentatively from our random corners – such as the convenient but seemingly unattached adjoining restaurant where I had a coffee – and congregated on the jetty alongside our presumed boat. Beyond a cursory glance at our tickets, we were ushered on without further ado and were soon skimming fast and high over the water.

In the air-conditioned cabin, endless episodes of a candid camera show were broadcast, while a solitary child made a lot of noise with a tablet computer which only his parents failed to hear. Belatedly, I went outside to observe the heavily forested landscape fly by.

The mode of transport and the setting was reminiscent of the war films that introduced the idea of the country to me – scenery I’d only really seen first-hand when I’d bussed down to the coast a week earlier. The US poisoned 4.5 million acres of jungle in the war – so much of the verdant landscape I had imagined was no longer here. While the signs of industry grew as we closed in on the city, the landscape was still largely free of cultivation or humanity.

Our entrance was relatively sudden and spectacular – a phalanx of gleaming skyscrapers announced a metropolis that would grace a sci-fi movie – no tedious warnings of its arrival through slow-building suburbs. I took a moto taxi to the most obviously budget tourist area – a cheap 20-minute ride that might’ve taken me a day to find alone. It wasn’t very prepossessing. The pollution and frenzied riding of mopeds rivalled Hanoi, but the heat added to a sense of oppression that had a distinctly Western feel. Elsewhere, a liberalised free market may have been operating openly alongside a low key authoritarian regime, but rampant capitalism was in the ascendency here in all its charmless unfettered glory.  

Saigon 1830…

 I’d always wanted to say that… in a croaky world-weary voice.

I drank a cooling beer in a narrow lane of cafés and restaurants close to my hotel after a day in the polluted swelter of the nation’s largest city. Within the fug of the endless battalions of scooters, I’d followed the clusters of tourist sights on my city centre map.

On the road in front of the opera house, I met a singular French cinematographer dicing with death. We briefly bonded. She showed me her quirky cameras, one was a 100-years-old, and a second a few decades more. And then she was gone… and somewhere in the Mekong Delta within the day. I was back in the first of several busy cities: Saigon, Dubai, and London. And unsure if I was ready. The traffic was as mad as Hanoi, but perhaps demanded a different flavour of confidence or mind game to safely cross the street. It was wilder, cheekier, and more sensual – more people called out, motives were less clear; it was messier, poorer, and probably more dangerous.

My hotel required a 2.5 million dong deposit, which exceeded the total for my likely bill – 700,000 dong a night was nearly double the highest I’d paid, but was still only £25 and came with air-con, bathroom, and a superfluous TV as well as kettle and assorted useful extras such as nail clippers, razor and shaving foam! All items failing my stringent inventory test. My long nails and resurgent stubble all demanded attention from these luxurious single purpose tools. Breakfast was also included but proved a damp (hot) squid as I’d lost my yen for bowls of steaming soup first thing. But unlimited coffee and condensed milk was a bonus for all the havoc it might wreak on my cholesterol levels.

For dinner, I ordered from a menu of too many choices (and cuisines) in a relatively quiet alleyway close to home. Less than 100m away was one of the world’s noisiest and brightest streets, which had violently assaulted my senses a little earlier. It was lined with podium dancers gyrating like sirens outside competing clubs, barely pubescent masseurs, and boisterous ‘security’ men-children who looked to ‘accidentally’ herd us into their premises. Stunned and amused tourists filled the low street-side tables. It wasn’t a place to stop alone – just walking its length once threatened a sensory overload. A generation ago, the grandparents of today’s employees entertained GIs as part of their survival strategy to counter the latest existential threat from outside its borders. And like a sinister eastern orchid, the rooted sleaze blooms anew from the cracks in the Saigon pavements.

A smattering of police topped and tailed this massed boulevard of temptation – the only evidence of the authorities minding the wild profitable hedonism. But then a couple of pickup trucks carrying a cargo of two shame-faced and cuffed young criminals gently nudged their way through the idling masses. It felt like a performance to reassure the consumers as much as intimidate any potential criminals. Sydney Carton being led to the guillotine through the baying masses in A Tale of Two Cities sprung obliquely to mind. But he had a cause.

 The previous night, I’d hung out at an outdoor sports bar with Daniel et Monique – a British-based French couple – to watch the England-France rugby in the Six Nations. We discussed the failings of modern Britain – Brexit obviously, and how the Tories were currently showcasing its Stop the Boats policy, while the BBC was banning Gary Lineker for tweeting liberal opinions. I wondered why they’d stayed so long, but their daughters were successfully melding the cultures, and it could be argued the whole world was going to pot more than it usually appears to be.

I cheerfully refused a sensual bombardment of offers in a local side street – and witnessed the delightful and beautiful young waitresses firmly handle rowdy young Brits. They would have besotted and intimidated me at 16, and were having none of my compatriots’ antics. The young revellers enjoying a stereotypically Bangkok-style Saturday night were a different breed from the earnest slightly older backpackers I’d met elsewhere. The former were perhaps school leavers, while the latter tended to be recent graduates. Or perhaps the nature and tenor of their good times was dictated by the wilder pack mentality of the all-men groupings versus the more moderated behaviour of those melding with women.

I was overcharged several times with an inflated bar bill, but not so I felt deliberately cheated. Back in the hotel, nothing quite worked as well as it was intended. The door lock and bolt, for example, required a lot of coaxing to collaborate.

Polluted crowded roads and frustrated wanderings dogged my days in Saigon. I diligently tracked down the Jade Emperor Pagoda – a ‘working’ temple and one in which I tried to avoid treading clumsily on anyone’s devotions. I was quite worn out before I arrived and needed some robustly delivered directions from a shouty local man at a nearby coffee stand to find it. He knew slightly more than my paper map and Google. The temple wasn’t as my vivid imagination created it from the lavish descriptions of the Lonely Planet nor was the Binh Tay Chinese market in Cholom, which took an age to walk to in the afternoon sun (I almost turned back). It was packing up when I arrived.

I reminded myself that I rarely visit churches or markets at home unless by express appointment or for practical purpose. I’m not sure what the market offered me anyway though I briefly bargained for a set of soup bowls. They were reminiscent of some we’d bought in the Far East half a century ago and collectively the family was down to its last few. My counter-offer was greeted with a snort of contempt. I walked. Compared with the time-consuming high-hysteria of the Maghreb, it was a refreshingly brief and decisive interaction. 

For me, the tourist high spot was the War Remnants Museum, the exterior of which was rammed with ordnance and machinery of destruction. Ample information was clearly provided – in the languages of the oppressor and the victim – on the consequences of this last and most devastating of invasions. It was strange how most visitors to Vietnam hailed from past invaders whether Chinese, American, French or Korean. The friendly natives let the monuments and museums make their case. A clear presentation of the facts is enough. I overheard a senior woman from the US saying: ‘if it’s meant to be about Vietnam, why is there so much American stuff?’ Meanwhile, a 60-something American stormed around the war crimes section in an apoplectic rage. He might have been shamefully digesting the evils of his country’s foreign policy, but I suspect his outrage concerned them being highlighted.

So, this is the end… nearly.

Early evening on my last night in Saigon, and I was sat people-watching in my local alley café with a strawberry smoothie. To round off my touristic experience, I’d considered a cocktail atop one of the downtown high-rise drinking spots, but was happy where I was and couldn’t be bothered to go alone.

Earlier, I’d visited the Cu Chi tunnels and crawled 100m through one widened for western girths. It narrowed sufficiently midway to force me to crawl on my hands and knees. Someone asked if I needed a hand with my bag through the tunnel, which I politely refused having forgotten my relative age amongst the fresh-faced youth. A skittishly friendly woman of my age revealed how her trip was a response to a mid-life crisis provoked by her son leaving home. She spoke compulsively with everyone about it and mentioned being the oldest in the group several times. Getting stuck lowering herself into a tunnel did nothing for her nerves.  

Talking of nerves, some paid to fire semi-automatic rifles. Their ear-splitting cracks made it easy to imagine 100 shots ringing out suddenly in the dead of night. Each one representing a bullet with your name on it or an unseen phantom trying to kill you. For months on end. A friendly young Englishman asked why I didn’t try it. Maybe he just saw a gun range. He suspected, perhaps, that I had ethical reasons for not firing them, but couldn’t quite put his trigger finger on it. I was feeling a little sanctimonious, but might easily have fired one on another day.

Our guide tested us on the dates of the conflict. For the mainly youthful audience, it was random guesswork. One plumped for 1996 – perhaps representing his dim, distant past. To be fair, the long roots of the conflict grew quietly underground before blooming in inglorious technicolour. So, it’s hard to pin down the exact timing. But he was still three decades out.

 Some of the older Western men – ex-forces, I’d guess – were clearly there to gratify their inner Neanderthal. Corrupted, perhaps, rather than insightfully cleansed by the evil they’d witnessed. It was as if their prior knowledge – being part of an invading force, willingly or not – had given them ideas for what could be bought cheaply. Low prices – particularly for women – seems high on that list. But others, I imagined, were seeking to process these past unprocessed horrors. Over several evenings at the smoothie stand, I’d spied a serious but gentle-looking North American of a certain age sitting across the way – I was intrigued by the potential stories behind some visits. He was polite and friendly with those he spoke with but there was something withheld – a very un-American trait – in his manner as he thoughtfully supped his juice. Intuitively, I guessed he was on a redemptive mission rather than a holiday. Before I could find an excuse to make an oblique approach to gently mine his memories, he was gone. For reasons of self-preservation, I suspected the floodgates would not easily yield. Or that again my imagination was getting carried away with itself.

Meanwhile, a skit of a lass danced around a grizzled European – she was doing all the work, and likely well paid (or perhaps he was just reticent about showing his emotions!) Across the way, a French-looking couple of middling years gazed on – muttering knowing commentary as the mismatched couple passed. A spectacular young woman sashayed by – the age of my unborn daughter. Mopeds idled along beside us bedecked with salted fish.

 Later, in the wonderfully comprehensive indoor market, I found myself the right dressing gown. It sent the wrong one clearly in a Sarah-wards direction. The woman who sold me the original had looked dubious – torn between the sale and telling me it was clearly designed for a woman. The next day I returned and bought a colourful lacquered box and a slender statuette of a woman created from egg-shells. I’d intended to buy from Stall 38 to honour a promise, but the lady had vanished somewhere into the labyrinth.

Day 28

 I visited the Botanical Gardens, which might make a peaceful haunt in a longer stay, but the incarceration of the big cats and bears in small pens reflected an absence of empathy more than a preservation of the species. No better illustration than the middle-aged woman lobbing sticks to disturb a listless bear with a look of smug amusement.

More edifying was a stroll around the Reunification Palace. Due to its 1970’s hotel exterior, it looked better on the inside, albeit a look – the in-house documentary assured me – that was modelled on various harmonious eastern principles. Aside from a few spectacular vases, the theme of absent content prevailed. Instead, you had to imagine the messy history that once filled it. I enjoyed best the control rooms in the basement with the clunky metal cabinets of knobs and flashing lights employed to vainly make sense of the military madness sparking about the country. Dirty tissues, crisp packets and ripped paper of the period would’ve added richly to the atmosphere for all the havoc it would play with the Feng Shui.   

Skipping the adjacent history museum was the right decision due to my impending 1400 checkout. This was made harder by a disastrous and unnecessary ‘short-cut’ that doubled the journey. The traffic, of course, punishes such mistakes by breaking up the rhythm and flow of movement. Only when I turned to see the guiding skyscrapers on the wrong side of the city did I realise I’d overshot. I had just enough time to douse myself in lukewarm water (too cold this morning, too warm now) and throw my gently fuming clothes (along with the pristine untouched silks) into my turgidly swollen rucksack.  

Earlier, I’d bumped into a man from the tunnel trip looking existentially lost with a beer. He detailed his unhappy divorce (1.5 houses lost, $160k on lawyers) and the ambitious, instinctive, and possibly endless world tour he was conducting with fear and wide-eyed naivety. He was open to advice on everything.

He introduced me to some grizzled old hands from South Africa and Australia and implied with a nod and wink how they knew their way around town. It felt like he could only be referring to prostitutes. They were friendly, but it was the only time our paths were likely to cross. It would’ve felt awkward to spend any longer together and reveal our differences: they seemed to belong to closed members-only category of humanity from which, once entered, there would be no coming back. Compared to the idealistic gap-year travellers, they appeared to be wringing out their last ounce of youth on the local fleshpots. With cash, of course; the time for two-way sensual transactions had long passed for them. An over-simplification, no doubt with so many types and circumstances to categorise. After all, the urges of gap-year hedonists are perhaps not so different – the young ones were perhaps just discovering what the older ones knew was slipping from their grasp.    

 Two 7-hour flights starting from midnight were always going to be tedious, but the six hours of airport time preceding it and the three hours between stretched out the grind excessively. The promise of transport strikes back home suggested a day to write off. Just reaching my gate was an almighty faff – huge snaking queues led to check-in and security.

Dubai was a city that provoked contempt rather than fear now that I was no longer the wanted man of my paranoid fears. But it didn’t let me go gently, or without spite. I spent a lot of time wandering its vast vague halls, taking a substantial subterranean bus journey between terminals, and negotiating three intense security checks. The ten-dollar coffee and the strenuous efforts taken to find me guilty of something lowered the odious city-state yet further in my estimation.

While watching an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm on the final flight, I blundered into a confrontation with the man seated ahead. Feeling slightly deranged with sleepless exhaustion, I responded to his second baleful glare back – both unprovoked – with a less than conciliatory: ‘What are you looking at?’ It wasn’t meant to come out like that. The confrontational tone was ironic as – unbeknown to him – I’d passed over his falling cap and pillow half a dozen times as he vainly tried to find a comfortable sleeping position. It was a very Larry David moment, and not my proudest, but I’d have been amused if someone else had said it. It was a dose of poison picked up from the emirate I’d just passed through, not the wonderful one in which I’d spent the last month.

I’d rather remember the gentleness of Far Eastern folk – like my final receptionist, one of many so eager to please. She looked touched when I asked to photograph her and became immortalised as the archetypal receptionist of Vietnam, a living symbol of those who raised my spirits and touched my heart in each temporary home. I thank Google Translate for letting us meet in the middle.

Dalat and Mui Ne

Dalat – Day 16

 I took a motorbike taxi from the station and for want of a destination was dropped off at the roundabout in central Dalat. The Young and the Organised headed off to specific reservations: this annoyed me vaguely. Obviously, I was annoyed they had a place and I didn’t, but I also felt, rather self-righteously, that many of the Young seemed incapable of doing anything on impulse. These planners had no sense of adventure nor instinct for following gut instincts. Were they indeed gutless?

And it wasn’t just that: their itineraries sounded exhausting and left me with absolutely no sense of envy for the months timetabled for restless roaming. It felt shallow and unrooted and… and perhaps exactly what I was now doing over a more limited period. I guess, man, it seemed like a neurotic quest for the next big thing without ever enjoying the moment. I was also struck – not for the first time – how little interest many younger travellers appeared to have in the local culture, people, language et cetera. It seemed to be more about ticking off must-do tourist activities and socialising with other People like Us. I’m sure this is very unfair on lots of fine international youth, but hey, my blog, my generalisations.  

Anyway, back to Sleepless in Dalat… I took stock over several coffees while chatting to its friendly and attentive vendor, Vung, about my prospects. Vung was a spirited and diminutive woman of perhaps 30-something years and was also the last person I spoke with when I left town. Finally, I ceased prevaricating and moved on and up the hill to an increasingly built-up area – Dalat market – that resembled a centre. Perhaps because I was getting my bearings alongside the city’s busiest roundabout, my first impressions didn’t fit the guidebook image of a colonial gem whose cool hilltop location offered refuge from the humid jungle lowlands. The usual fuming phalanxes of mopeds poured around it – spinning off centrifugally like flying chairs snipped off a merry-go-round – on their mission to pollute every corner of town.

On reflection, its modern attractions are away from the urban centre of half million amongst whom I chose to make my temporary home. To find the myriad lakes, waterfalls, and pagodas that filled the tourist brochures, a moped would have been most useful.   

Smarter hotels lined the roads ahead while within the area they enclosed lay stalls selling flowers and snacks and a space that later teemed with many hundreds of customers to wide spreading street restaurants. From this crowded spot, nonetheless, you could look back to the station and take a picture from a certain angle that captured the old colonial cathedral and the essence of the town from that era. Beyond the roundabout was substantial lake with a flotilla of tourist boats fashioned like giant swans.  

Halfway up the hill, I inquired at a hotel that overlooked this urban nucleus, but its price and formal atmosphere wasn’t right. Further on, I found one for less than a tenner with a hairdressing shop in its foyer. Several camp young men generally occupied the chairs strewn about it with a mood of languid huffiness, while all the work was done by a young woman unsupported by the younger siblings crowding around her cramped desk of operations.      

I made a dire decision for lunch – fatigue and hunger were aggravating factors. I ordered a boiled fatty chicken – all the gristly bits with a pho of noodles – a lot of which I spilled over the table, but gamely munched through what remained in the giant bowl. To add insult to possible internal injury, it cost 150 dong instead of the 60 I expected. It was possibly a meal for four, and certainly my worst. From now on, I vowed to only order food I recognised.

Journalist Nick later rang to assure me that I was unlikely to be arrested in Dubai on my return journey. Nonetheless, criticising an intolerant regime in a broadcast before returning four weeks later now seemed like poor planning. Insulting the head of state, Nick suggested, was a more reliable way to provoke the authorities. Still, my report detailed petty and extreme reactions to private messages on which the state had eavesdropped so I figured an international broadcast might upset someone from the ranks of its paranoid publicity machine. Nick ‘joked’ about what a story that would make. The image of this idea could easily haunt the rest of my trip. Another flight via elsewhere would cost a painful 600 quid.

Later, I belatedly received an email reply from the programme editor who’d been off during the days of my growing paranoia that my real name was used on the broadcast. I’d changed it to something alliteratively similar in the recording, but not in the introduction I’d written a few days earlier. Thus, I whooped with relief to discover the report hadn’t yet run and gratefully agreed to re-record – with my real name – when I returned home. Panic over. Win-win. On reflection, the exhausted tension of this first day permeated my time in Dalat, but now that my 600-quid flight scare had passed, I promised myself I’d now eat and drink whatever I wanted.

 My eating day began in one of the best possible ways with a bacon and avocado sandwich, strawberry smoothie, and a Vietnamese coffee. The quality of the food was excellent at my latest local though it cost slightly too much for not quite enough. I was now craving familiarity from my daytime food, while more than happy to place my taste-buds in the hands of the national cuisine thereafter. The few members of staff in this small but well-formed backstreet spot were very polite, stuck rigidly to their script, and gave the impression of being fearful about some cataclysmic event sure to engulf humanity sometime before lunch.

I trekked out to a pagoda 5km or so beyond the centre. Most provided maps are wonky and hand drawn so the reality of other roads and landmarks tends to muddy the picture while the language issue means English names for either are of little use. I thought I’d found it a kilometre or so before, but it was another pagoda that didn’t make the guidebook. Ironically, even now I don’t know the name of my chosen destination and the internet can’t place it despite its spectacular array of colourful carved dragons, golden Buddhas, and life-size figures spread about the peaceful gardens. Happily, I had it all to myself.    

In the afternoon, I took a taxi up to the Bao Dai Summer Palace, former home of the eponymous last royal – effectively a puppet of the Japanese during their occupation in WWII. The last emperor was ushered off the international stage by Ho Chi Minh before the serious work of forging independence from the French, who thought re-colonising the country was a reasonable option. Bao Dai and various deceased ex-residents are immortalised upstairs as waxworks. It was quite modest for a palace, barely a spare bedroom for overnight guests, but perhaps this reflects the reality of puppet rulers – just enough luxury to befit the look and nothing more.

On the way down, I stopped at the old Dalat railway station, an art deco building completed by the French in 1938 with claims of being the oldest station in Indochina. Largely unused since the war, it comes with its own now-stationary steam train. Due to its awkward historical timing, the 84km line received more bombs than passengers.

I ate dinner at a restaurant proudly bearing the blessing of the Lonely Planet. I’d scoffed inwardly at the box-ticking tourists packed in like tempura sardines when I’d wandered past the night before, but their judgement proved sound. Like my breakfast locals, it struck the balance between good value for quality fare albeit at prices few locals would pay. When your GDP’s four times theirs everyone wins. I shared the now near empty restaurant with a Spanish woman sobbing down her phone. Solo travelling has its challenges.

A little earlier, I flirted with the menu of a bar operating around the top band of the tourist tax. The 200 dong cocktails (around £7), explained why the only locals present were serving them. I settled for a beer to earwig on those blessed with company for sundowners. A braying American discussed whether he’d even ‘let his girlfriend go to India’ during some period of high political tension before referencing how he’d recently ‘killed bronchitis’. Malaria would presumably slink out the back door when he stormed the bar. The surrounding women looked more thoughtful but their words were drowned out by his opinions. They came with different accents so I presume it was a hostel crowd.

Sometime before dinner, a cash machine gave me two million dong – the most calming pre-prandial gesture a machine can offer a far-flung traveller.

Breakfast was enlivened by something going off at the hard-to-define business across the street. A young woman employee spent a good while shouting at a middle-aged man who finally descended the interior stairs. Several women passed by to comfort her and eventually the usually invisible police turned up in human form. They listened and nodded without looking inclined to lead anyone away. I was also listening out for any Vietnamese I recognised. ‘Toi’ (‘go away’) was the only phrase I recognised… But what was it about?

I’d been wondering about law enforcement in this theoretically intolerant one-party state. When later in Saigon, a hapless policeman attempted to stop the traffic in front of the Reunification Palace, he was almost flattened by the onrushing mopeds and their impassive pilots. Otherwise, the people model a spirit of cheeky warmth. If the NHS was created to reward a put-upon British people for their wartime suffering, the Vietnamese have perhaps earnt a few millennia of expressing themselves how they wish. Seems fair.

For my last day, I finished off my chosen tourist trips after pottering around the lake and having a coffee with Vung. First, I found the Crazy House, an extraordinarily dream-like labyrinth of connected spaces and rooms created by a local architect. Like what Saruman would’ve done with the Shire if he’d had the time and budget. You could rent one of its exquisitely idiosyncratic rooms, which would be fantastic if they came with magic mushrooms and without hundreds of tourists peeping through its porthole windows. On a tendril-like stairway, an Asian woman asked for a picture with me – her companions roared with laughter. Funny white man make funny photo.

After, I took a taxi to the Truc Lam Zen monastery. Clear signs immediately clarified the need for long trousers. Again. The bottom half of my zip trousers lay on my hotel room floor. Where soldiers would have enforced the rule at the Hanoi Mausoleum, the monks might’ve let my disrespectful dress pass with an extra deep calming inhalation, but I didn’t want to be that tourist. My self-punishment involved sheepishly walking around its borders and reading my book in the outlying gardens. I returned via a 2km cable car over pine forests where the views from its base made sense of the modern sprawl beneath. It was a still a handsome place despite the exponential growth though I’d love to have seen it before the coming of the iron 2-wheeled steed.

From here, I followed a circuitous route home on foot due to the haphazard layout of the roads and the views home being blocked out by the steep hills of the quarter. While in the area, I detoured towards the Catholic cathedral, named variously as St Nicholas, Dalat, Chicken, or even Cock Cathedral. Completed in the early 40s, its style is described as Romanesque revival. Something light and airy in the elegant and airy tan brickwork of the main tower and its tiled blue roof was more reminiscent of the modern Mediterranean than anything out of Asia.

With its history of bloody invasion from the persistent Chinese, marauding Mongols, and infuriating French and US, it’s no surprise most natives are officially without faith. The Catholics and Buddhists duke it out for the minority who nail their colours to the divine mast. The church was packed when I passed and glimpsed inside the nave from the arched entrance of the main tower. Inside, it contrasted with the Catholic churches I knew from Latin America that are built on locally sourced gold and silver. In a later era, in a different place, the business afoot was more spiritual than acquisitive. The guilt’s still free.   

For dinner, I ate a spicy squid at one of the outdoor market places before heading to a hotel I’d scoped earlier where an American Blues ‘legend’ allegedly performed… Located east of the lake amongst flasher hotels and casinos, it was unexplored territory and seemed to be frequented by wealthy Chinese. It turned out the guitar man had moved premises. And he was cancelled there too…  

In recompense, I shocked five staff at an empty bar by ordering a banana daiquiri. They were embarrassed to charge me the equivalent of £3 – half what I was quoted elsewhere that night. But my efforts to find good music were rewarded unexpectedly. For the couple of men sipping a beer outside were not fellow customers but a 2-piece band who sang and played Western classics on guitar. The lead singer was flattered when I praised his uncanny impersonation of Cat Stevens, but looked compromised by my enthusiasm. An audience of one prolonged a set indefinitely that might otherwise have been cut short.    

 Mui Ne – Day 20 

 I had an annoying adventure just getting to the bus station. My taxi’s first stop was the train station. I’d repeated the appropriate full Vietnamese sentence carefully several times, before indicating ‘bus station’ in two languages in my phrasebook to support the thrust of my request. Despite our different preferences, our squabble was good natured and we left on good terms. The folk appear less sensitive here than their regional counterparts. Napoleon referred to the English as a nation of shopkeepers – the Vietnamese with their direct manner and thicker skins perhaps model the traits of street market traders.

I bade farewell to the ladies of Dalat: namely coffee-touting Vung; the hard-working receptionist, and the formerly timid woman at my breakfast café. For my last meal, she now seemed fearlessly happy to see me and overloaded my sandwich sufficiently to satisfy me.

Buying a bus ticket was hard for reasons I’d need Vietnamese to know. The first two desks wouldn’t sell me a ticket – the woman at the second irritably pointing to a phone number pinned to the wall. Then a man led me to another desk where a woman sold me a 2,500-dong ticket to Mui Ne for a 1pm bus before telling me to be ready at midday.

At 12pm, I was duly driven to an obscure ‘bus-stop’ elsewhere in town by a scowling man in a luxury people carrier. Here, I discovered Shriyani sitting behind a parked bus. Also heading for Mui Ne. I’d spent days planning my next destination and – to my thinking – it was a far from obvious choice. Other places – such as a little port or a fishing village – had appealed more, but seemed either hard to reach or leave so while Mui Ne had a kind of low culture party reputation, it also seemed like an easy place to kick back in the off season. During my planning, I’d concluded that I’d spent too much time rushing around and losing track of why I was there. (Why was I there?) It was time to lower the pulse.

Anyway, while I’d found the right bus for the right money, I had the last (and worst) seat in the bus – centre, back, upper level in a sleeper. I chatted with the English couple arranged like sausages horizontally alongside. It was hard not to acknowledge your neighbours in this exposing position. Presumably I lost my 50 Philosophy Classics book here, which I was only half-way through. As it was my only loss on holiday (the reactolite specs returned from being lost daily), I took it in the spirit it was written.

Driving down through the central highlands to the southern coast, I enjoyed the changing scenery on a daytime journey where I could actually see it. For the first time, it was reminiscent of the Vietnam of those films – dense green foliage sprouting all about in tandem with the rising lowland temperature and humidity. At a pit-stop alongside a wide river over which the jungle canopy hunched, this final ingredient of the tableau completed it. I mentioned this to my 20-something horizontal companion, but his blank look suggested he lacked the reference points.   

By early evening, I might easily have got off at the wrong town that preceded Mui Ne for once again the lack of a SIM card meant it was all guesswork in an environment where no information is communicated in English. Confusingly, our journey was completed by minibus, which I left while the rest of the passengers were debating the extra money wanted by our new drivers. I had no idea whether they figured I owed them too, but I went unnoticed while the young Europeans debated charges and their specific dropping off points. I had none so wandered off what felt like midway down a 10km strip. (I never found a centre – just created my own and walked 2km in either direction for variety.)

I checked into a hotel with a large optician showroom in its reception. The three or four men working there appeared equally employed by both. I was well overdue an eye test and no doubt it would’ve been good value, but I feared something might be lost in translation. I rented another safe, comfortable en-suite room for less than a tenner. In a country where lodgings are cheap, my choice of what looks okay standing outside was working fine.

For dinner, I crossed the street and ordered the half-done beef pho from a menu of myriad beef options that tonight was only available in two of the advertised 20. The second available was ‘well done’. Bagel twists or poached eff were optional extras. Ironically, my beef seemed quite well done – at least three-quarters, I warrant. The restaurant was manned by a couple of youngsters holding the fort for the odd straggler like myself and the single other customer who also hadn’t the energy or knowledge to walk a few hundred metres for something better.   

 Today was one of those rare days when I felt fully aware of how wonderful it could be to be alive… The stars were briefly aligned so I let the warmth flow rather than trying to control or decipher the alchemy producing it.  

Beyond my opening banana smoothie and bacon and eggs, my ambitions extended little further than to be shaved – I was tiring of my fluffy white holiday beard – before being massaged; eating poolside club sandwiches and seafood platters (I’d already eye-balled my victims); and finishing one of my remaining books.

The most exquisite of shaves came at the gentle hands of the underemployed hairdresser from across the street, who took as long as it needed to slowly pare down the excess of hair on my chin, ears, nose and neck. Leaving scented and looking seven or eight years younger, I pretty much vowed never again to let my stubble grow beyond three days. The only motivation to do so would be to earn another shave.

Afterwards, I booked a space at a perfect cooling swimming pool and a lounger overlooking the sea. I was the only guest. A little way up the long straight road, my spring roll lunch and hot chocolate were followed by an unrequested treat of passion fruit with condensed milk that appeared every time I returned. Here, I lost my prescription sunglasses, which turned up safe the next day behind the counter when I retraced the trail of leisure and self-indulgence. I would continue to lose (and find) them for the remainder of my trip.

The massage took place in the liminal space between pain and pleasure. Massages were one of the main trades on the strip – all I think of the innocent variety unlike Saigon where I believe the sessions were more focused on the ending. (I’m guessing from the on-street marketing.) The list of options was suspiciously wide like a food menu that covers cuisines with nothing in common, so I ordered an hour’s indulgence for the whole body before staggering away stretched, cossetted and bruised before my next appointment. It probably did some good.    

That evening, I took a pre-prandial white wine in a rather worldly bar denuded of local charm and boasting a menu of biblical proportions. Unsmilingly, they charged in advance. As I was leaving, Shriyani pulled up on her latest moped. ‘It’s about time!’ I admonished. A young German woman was riding pillion. I was indifferent to the flashy club we visited next door where I mistakenly ordered a short sharp shot when really wanting something longer and subtler. The club employed several DJs and had room for 500 ravers whose places were taken by seven of us. It was like being 20 again, the era when we drifted half-heartedly towards places we felt should visit. All that better music and cheaper drinks at home… but perhaps we didn’t have homes to entertain in then.

The German woman seemed nervous – possibly for the unexpected company of a much older man (me) whose English she struggled to decipher. They returned to their hostel for dinner, while I randomly selected one of the seafood places. Now deserted of custom, the two remaining members of staff seemed thrown by my singular presence. The waitress brought me the two dishes I had expressed an interest in despite only ordering one of them. I dealt with the problem efficiently and without complaint.    

I considered skipping onto Vung Tau the next day, which looked intriguing from the mixed reviews. Lively at weekends with a dodgy-sounding ex-forces crowd hungrily lapping up all the Vietnamese extras. They sounded like a colourful cast for a World Report piece.

I spent a lazy afternoon by the pool while waiting for my laundry and bought a bus ticket for Vung Tau. All seemed right with the world still, but my loins were already girded for new pastures. A single day of indulgence proved enough – preparations for my departure were already underway. I’d be bored as hell with a whole holiday of leisure, but one day of recharging was heavenly.  

Speaking in Tongues

Day 1 – Hanoi, Vietnam

 I was looking forward to being met at the airport, but couldn’t see my name – or any creative alternative – on the signs of the taxi drivers awaiting red-eyed visitors to Hanoi. My hotel, it transpired, had forgotten to book one. I consulted my phrasebook for help negotiating a fare with the freelance drivers mopping up the lost, virginal, and confused. Feigning familiarity with the process, no doubt poorly, I agreed to pay the first man I approached the huge number he conjured onto the screen of his calculator. It exceeded the standard fare by a third. I took the hit philosophically: the extortion rackets run by airport taxis were well documented.   

When I arrived at my hotel in the old quarter, I chose to be friends with the receptionist, but felt it only fair to point out her slip. While doing so, I was mystified by the significant discrepancy between her stumbling spoken English and the relative fluency of her email. It came to make sense later. For the same $20 tariff, my show of goodwill was reciprocated with an upgrade to a room in a sister hotel that was bigger and better.

The reported descriptions of traffic were accurate: everyone wildly slalomed around with only a slight emphasis on keeping to the right side. Despite the cacophony of horns, the drivers didn’t seem too perturbed – it was just the simplest way to communicate their presence though it’s moot how effectively they stand out from the messy confusion of the audio soup. Inevitably, there are times when you need to cross the road on foot. Here, the best action is to simply walk without paying heed to the traffic – the locals are well-versed in avoiding you, but it’s important to do so in a predictable and steady fashion.

I ate my first dinner close to the lake in the commercial heart of the old quarter. In a lively street of restaurants, I ordered a dried beef salad packed with fresh herbs. Healthy and not quite enough. One of the hazards of eating alone is the commitment to one dish when you’d rather sample two or three. Still, there’s always tomorrow. I almost forgot to sip the vinegar and peanut sauce from the bowl.

 It was a busy morning in which a full night’s sleep following a sleepless one induced myriad schoolboy errors. Firstly, I misplaced my passport and visa in a (too good) hiding place. I took my concern to reception – the last place I remembered seeing either – and they denied everything, while offering me a daytrip instead. It was less a response than one of 20 learned phrases – much like being directed to a FAQ page on a website because one of the prepositions in your query was found in an otherwise irrelevant answer. Fighting back a minor panic attack, while staying just within the boundaries of politeness, I returned to my room and noticed the tell-tale bulge of lost documents beneath the kettle mat.

Soon after, I was overcharged by a rickshaw driver wanting $10 to take me round a few corners to my original hotel. After consulting the hotel receptionist about a fair price, I paid him two-thirds of what he asked on the basis that if we hadn’t arranged a price, he didn’t have a monopoly on naming one. He left cursing. Honours even. It was the last time on my trip that I felt ripped off. (It turned out to be a wasted journey anyway as the hotel didn’t provide breakfast.) It took a few days to realise the two hotels were two points on the same line though when led from one to the other by the receptionist, we changed direction at least four times.

I ordered Ban Mi with pork and pate in a soft and crunchy baguette from a stall down the road. A very inappropriate breakfast, perhaps, but I wanted one under a belt I was happy to loosen a notch. At a nearby café, I ordered my first Vietnamese coffee. The two orders represented an enticing marriage of East and West – perhaps the only two positive legacies of the colonising French. The drink arrived as separate components – an expresso-sized dose of coffee with small jugs of water and condensed milk. Unlike the Ban Mi, the coffee matched the hype, possibly due to the sugar rush of the milk. A delightful morning ritual was established.

From here, I made my way to the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum, where signs clearly banned the wearing of shorts or shirts without long sleeves. A cab back to my hotel would’ve solved that issue, but my customary tightness over unnecessary expenses kicked in. This was the biggest mistake of my entire trip – an opportunity to file past Uncle Ho never again presented itself. Instead I went to an army museum and then to what became known as the Hanoi Hilton – the infamous former French prison – including guillotine – that was later used to house US pilots such as John McCain. It was claustrophobic and cramped and the main thrust of the exhibits was on the harsh treatment of the natives by the French. Not perhaps what most (American) visitors were looking for, but the authorities made sure it was what they got.   

On an overcast day, I wandered up to the adjoining lakes, where the relative calm offered relief from the massed crowds squeezing through the labyrinthine lanes of the old quarter. Later, I chose one of the restaurants popular with locals and backpackers where we sat on tiny chairs and ordered by pointing at picture menus. One of the staff found it hilarious that I ordered in Vietnamese and joked about it to a crowd of chortling locals. I grinned along. I think his emphasis was on my trying to speak Vietnamese.

 Today’s unusual breakfast involved eating/drinking a giant bowl of Beef Pho.

My hotel was full so I needed a room for my final night in town. Happily, my original hotel, the Mayflower had one for a similar price. Here I became better acquainted with the young Ms Kim of my first email contact. She hails from the Chinese border and lives with friends locally. She apologised for the missing airport taxi and hazarded that my therapeutic training explained my lack of histrionics. It may help.

Late the previous night, we’d negotiated a trip to Halong Bay. She’d assured me that the colleague who’d book it in the morning spoke good English too. In practice, they were both equally competent at using a translation app. Sign language is king with heavy recourse to useful props such as pictures and calendars. I was glad not to be leaving that day as I hadn’t slept well due to general holiday over-excitement. The first trips I was offered were beyond my budget and needs, while the least luxurious looked more than adequate. After a blister-inducing hike around the museums the day before, I settled for visiting the peaceful Gardens of Literature where young scribes once learnt their trade – an oasis of tranquillity amid the noisy chaos of the city.

Close to home, evening dinner was a sizzling BBQ served by po-faced locals slightly off the tourist strip. I’d hoped to rediscover a wild heaving crossroads of eateries I’d stumbled through the night before, but without a local SIM card to guide me through the maze of lanes, that outcome was in the hands of serendipity. Serendipity cocked a snook. After about a fortnight of ruing this decision, I decided it was now no longer a good value purchase. A passive gambler’s fallacy. Silly me.  

 Halong Bay – Day 3

 For two days and a night, I entered the picture postcard world of Halong Bay.

We headed east of Hanoi for 2.5 hours with me riding shotgun up front ahead of 16 others. We stopped first at a pearl centre where I heard nothing of a brief lecture in a room where 50 or so other brief lectures were taking place simultaneously. Opportunities to distort our holiday spending abounded. As our bus was now parked somewhere completely different amongst 100 others, I instead sought some familiar faces from those complete strangers who had sat behind me. Another hazard of travelling solo – not having anyone say: ‘Oh my god, we forgot Gareth in that toilet 30km back! At least we have his bag.’  

We boarded the boat around midday. The loud dance music greeting us was an omen. This imposed presumptuous mood could hardly be ignored so I embraced it. Hobson’s Choice. After all, this was the economy tour. The more expensive trips allowed you to buy into a specific age-group or social class. Nonetheless, my $20 single supplement bought me a delightful single cabin with a view. Lunch and dinner were good – its mix of pork, chicken, vegetables and fruit was a complete meal without division into separate courses. First beer soon came, went, and was followed by more before merging into the cocktail hours. Weed materialised. My $45 bar bill represented the cost of the trip’s one true drinking session. It was a fun diversion from the pacific solitude of the remainder.

It also oiled the wheels of sociability with the generally youthful others. Various people shared their life stories with me before knowing I was a therapist.

Like British sisters, Jess and Ellie, the former, well-travelled, married and with lots of therapy behind her, a happy party woman who shares adrenalin junkiness with a skydiving absent husband. Little sister Ellie also confided a lot. I reminded her of another Gareth she liked. Boyfriend Tom was chirpily friendly and travelling with an interesting itinerant, D, who’d escaped from the mid-west and was using a TEFL qualification to travel far and wide away from it. Judicious use of weed countered his ADHD. His restaurant boss sent him off for a smoke when his focus appeared to drift.

An adventurous Aussie couple, Mark and C, had motorcycled 600 miles across the country – a venture that particularly impressed me, however much quieter the country backroads might be. Mark revealed a certain blue-collar conservatism in his implacable refusal to join in with the party games and karaoke. He wouldn’t sing, while C threw herself into the strangely inevitable Celine Dion duet. Nobody could follow that so I stepped forward to sing Sixteen Tonnes. I’m not sure it was what the crowd was expecting. I sang alone and received several wordless claps on my back.

 I fraternised too with Daniel, a trainee clinical psychologist whose birthday we celebrated three days early; two young Swiss bankers; and three Chileans. Of the latter, I spoke bad Spanish and better English with the male of the trio, an affable phenomenologist, exchanged basic greetings with his sweet girlfriend, while flagrantly failing to catch the eye of her equally petite (and quite lovely) cousin Valentina.

The group was completed by a cheerful Italian family in which the parents relied on their Roger Federer-lookalike sons to translate, and Polish-Canadians, Jack and Ewa – retired in their 60s – and my only on-board seniors, who cheerfully disagreed about most of their travelling experiences (he loved Paris, she hated it). These two described being diddled for two million Dongs by an airport taxi-driver, and how – coincidentally – Ewa had filmed the episode, which led to them tracking the culprit down and using the evidence to force him to give half their money back.

Rounding off this intense 30 hours of socialising was… Diedra, an Irish nurse still happily working in A&E after three years; two equally sweet non-identical Danish twins, Silla and Mathilde, 19, whose trip was compensating for a lacklustre lockdown, and their compatriot, 22-year-old Janus with whom I kayaked the morning after to blow away my boozy cobwebs. The Danes were the first and last I spoke with from our taking the second launch to board to being dropped off last back in Hanoi. We lost contact only in the very British boozy middle portion. They all seemed quite affectionate towards me which made me wonder if I reminded them of one of their father’s more likeable friends.

 Hue – Day 6

Three Vietnamese girl-women flirted with me over dinner at a restaurant they ran without a fleshed-out adult in sight. In my experience, their cheeky confidence was not mirrored by the often-demure females of the country, but reminded me of young indigenous women (with added mischief) on market stalls in Latin America. I wonder if, like them, those from the poorer classes here skipped being teenagers. Their middle-class equivalents seem already plugged into the matrix of international technological consumerism.

I accepted the invitation to eat through a combination of their collective winning charm, the late hour, and the unappealing drizzle beyond they alley of my lodgings. I chose a strange spring pancake chicken affair with a hot (very) sweet and sour sauce. I wasn’t eating many balanced meals – more sampling each very different dish one by one.

I’d spent a hard-working afternoon writing a World Report piece on Dubai rather than dithering in the hot Hue sun after arriving at 8.30am on the 13-hour sleeper train. An Indian corporate lawyer, Shriyani, slept on the bunk below and was delighted to hear one could change career at 40, which still gives her a handful of years to reinvent herself. We were joined by what I assumed was a mother and son Vietnamese couple and all slept quietly despite the blazing light remaining stubbornly on throughout.

I’d been delighted to board without anything going wrong. Sharing an alphabet helps when reading the train times, but when the woman on helpdesk doesn’t speak English, you hope everything runs smoothly. If it ran like British rail, I was fucked. 

Bar for the usual dodgy wi-fi, the hotel was pleasant, friendly, and less than $10 for a functioning clean en-suite room. I’d settled for the same place Shriyani had booked after briefly and indecisively wandering a few blocks on this periphery to the tourist quarter. Like most travellers, she was one step ahead of me in organisation. We took a stroll to the Perfume river – the old bridge between the two halves of the city a significant location in one of the American war’s fiercer battles in which the defending Vietnamese occupied the ancient citadel. I was a little underwhelmed initially though the wide central avenues were calm and empty compared with everything I’d seen. Like the mountains of Quito, it also gave me a reference point for getting home. I elected against the Citadel in the baking afternoon sun.

I ate at a café close to the mouth of my hotel’s alley. The owners had researched well. Western breakfasts and local coffee came with all the cultural variations at slightly more than the going rate, but it was affordable and closer to what my body expected for the day’s first meal. Its beers were advertised as being ‘cold as your girlfriend’s heart’. The owner spoke goodish English, as did the hotel manager. Both were affectionately attentive to my attempts to wrangle sense from their intonated language.

I covered many miles walking around the citadel, market, and backpacker zone. The citadel was vast and well preserved. Only a few fenced off sections heaped up with rubble looked unlikely to be reconstituted into anything useful or pretty, along with a few others where repair work looked scheduled. Unlike their Western equivalents, the majesty seemed to be in form over content. Perhaps people of the East don’t need ‘things’ as much as Westerners, but in these public places, the balance and harmony of Eastern thinking is embodied by these vast symmetrical structures and the gardens and water features filling the spaces in between. It was unclear how much damage was done when the North Vietnamese forces faced the Americans across the river from behind its ancient walls. Yin, Yang, and Harmony presumably took a long holiday.

As a tourist, I didn’t really pay much attention to the commercial centres aimed at the local middle classes and jammed with the technology of companies from neighbours like Japan, South Korea and China. Most of my interactions were probably with the poorer sections of society bar those individuals at a management/owner level, who I imagine were only modest earners. I’d been surprised to see Vietnam rated as lower middle income – an upgrade from being one of the world’s poorest before it opened its markets. With GDP per capita at $3,750, the emphasis is on the ‘lower’, but the visible absence of extreme poverty, begging, or humble shacks in the cities illustrates the upwards shift. 

Around Hue, I started enjoying my chosen ‘Nam book, the award-winning Dispatches, by Micheal Herr. Recommended by its modest yet sufficient length, and ringing endorsement from Graham Green, my initial excitement was slowly eroded by its rambling streams of consciousness style, the barely decipherable GI dialogue, and the slang terminology of war. Quite possibly a brilliant evocation of the madness, mess, and confusion of being there, but I hadn’t been… so was frustrated by the absence of explanation.

A kilometre or so from my lodgings, I experienced my first draft beer in the tourist sector. It showcased a more relaxing party atmosphere than the extremes of Hanoi or Saigon – the locals more warm and affectionate. (At the weekend, it all changed. Fans of fun from home and away embraced their crazier sides.) Despite inclinations to go native, I was sometimes treated as an awkward oddity in local restaurants where my ordering was almost entirely guesswork. A willingness to speak Vietnamese – rarely successful in intent – was appreciated and often gave amusement to those who’d crossed the Rubicon of learning English.  

A set menu here let me combine several aspects of the cuisine. Prawns and satay sauce were prominent themes. From my vantage point above the street, I espied and swapped greeting with the Italians from Halong Bay who were still emanating a force field of charming goodwill.

Earlier, I’d spent $15 on a vape that took an hour or so to track down – cheap tailor-made cigarettes are the default choice so it’s still the lesser of two evils. Despite the seemingly outrageous price, it was rechargeable and lasted weeks. I finally threw it away in England as its durability and strange tasting fuel struck me as suspiciously wrong. The effort and expense to procure it were further reasons for giving up.

It’s always strange to find Saturday nights a ‘bit much’. The buzz of the tourist trail is not always conducive to peaceful contemplation – even the mostly empty little eatery with its cute low wooden tables where I dined just off the strip. I ate a barbeque beef dish with some fries, onions, and peppers; the beef was tough though the strong umami tone of the sauce was seductive (I’m 10 days into marmite withdrawal). Before this, it took me longer to send two emails about my radio report than it did to write it.

Appearance-wise, I feel set apart from the crowd in my jacket, jeans, and boots – quite dandified among the t-shirt, sandal, and short-wearing populace. But I like exhibiting my own ‘style’ over the dressed down ‘holiday’ uniform of travellers old and young.

Today, the trip’s first rain set the agenda – it foiled a visit to a pagoda, but allowed an excursion to the riverside Ho Chi Minh museum, which raised my admiration of Uncle Ho another notch. Its comprehensive biography of the itinerant polyglot illustrated how his political consciousness was forged on shifts in steamy kitchens amid the proletariats of the West. It suggested a kind, thoughtful and restless man with a steely sense of destiny who transcended the circumstances of his birth. He saved kitchen leftovers for the less fortunate.       

For the next day, I arranged to cross the Hai Van Pass after forgetting to bargain with a wise old fellah named Voy (64), who gently assailed me with facts on a street corner when I’d sought shelter and a full breakfast. With a patient air of desperation, he waited nearby as I whiled away the morning drizzle. Slipping out the back would’ve conveniently deleted his existence from my plans, but my nagging conscience suggested a small change of plan for me might be a large boon for him. I soon found myself accepting his $50 quote to get me over the pass. Earlier, I’d been coached at reception to bargain for under 35. His age, knowledge, and grandchildren were a factor. Five hours with stop-offs and applied wisdom that would cost the earnings of a 50-minute zoom call… It was no time to barter.

 Hoi An – Day 9

 The Hai Van Pass proved eminently surmountable for two men on a 110cc moped. Its international fame derives from its appearance on Top Gear, which is thus much quoted by local motorbike owners. Old Voi was up for the task, but hadn’t made the trip for five years, and not from this road. At one point, he asked for directions! The blind leading the blind…

The pass itself was far from scary and took less than 30 minutes of the 4-hour ride. The weather was mostly overcast and spitting – though lighter than the day before. Visibility was poor. The moped and its 120-year-old cargo chugged remorselessly and painfully upwards. Five minutes at the ‘viewpoint’ summit was more than enough for a few photos of the grey hazy landscape below. Steep in parts, our sedate pace up and down its sweeping curves was anything but nerve-wracking.

On the far side, we drove through Da Nang– a modern-looking city seemingly catering for tourists seeking bland beach resorts and a heavily diluted local identity. No obvious centre materialised in the many kilometres covered to gain the road to Hoi An. In the war, GIs took beach breaks here from the fighting. I congratulated myself on not scheduling an overnight stop. I imagined it being a relatively expensive and depressing experience.  

From here, Voi began questioning drivers at traffic lights and dismounted several times when baffled by roads beyond his memory or built since his last trip out. Luckily, I insisted on him taking me all the way to the unsigned commercial centre – as he was initially minded (quite innocently, I think) to drop me off 10km away on its outskirts.

I bought him lunch and a beer in Hoi An, before he wended his weary way home. I almost offered him a night in a hotel – a full shift was perhaps a rarity for him these days. I hoped the $50 stretched much further than it would for me. When I messaged to check, he’d made it home safely and gave the impression the adventure was as much his as mine.

Initially, it was hard to work out Hoi An – a former major port that’s now the country’s most popular destination for visitors. From the roadside, we couldn’t discern an obvious centre until we spied a flow of visitors towards a lantern-lit pedestrian quarter. Food and clothes are the greatest draws to this small city of 120,000, but the canal-lined old quarter with its temples and merchant houses draw on the influence of old traders from China, Japan and France. Within it, energetic consumers of food and fine clothing were crammed around a quarter set about a small lake. I found a good-enough hotel nearby with all I needed from a room except, of course, reliable internet.

I’d eaten thrice by nightfall. Following our pork and rice late lunch, I lined my stomach with a rice cake down by the lake where the spectacular fleets of lantern boats ease past, and briefly fled the stall-side stools during a sudden squall. Second dinner was taken with a German woman who was placed opposite me for maximum efficiency of seating. She warned me to commit to a few more nights in my hotel as she’d been forced out of town by a lack of beds. I’d tried to book a place before arriving but the internet failed so thought myself lucky to have a hotel with that very name for 300 dong a night (£11).

It was my kind of shoppers’ paradise here – a rare thing for one who rarely window shops. I’d already spotted the perfect silk dressing gown and several dapper shirts.     

 At my new local, I was the only customer. Chanh (cold tea) cost 15 dong – a number so small in English pence to not bother calculating. Elsewhere, I spent almost £30 on three beautiful shirts – two cotton, and one in black silk sporting a red dragon. I contemplated a magnificent dressing gown for a hundred. For some reason, I’d decided a Far Eastern dressing gown was a crucial piece of my life puzzle. As an undersized 6-year-old, I’d owned one in turquoise that I presumably donned before smoking my bubble pipe. At the time, we lived in the Philippines so it was perhaps more part of the uniform than it would’ve been in the Home Counties. I also owned a rather dapper grey three-piece suit that came with shorts rather than long trousers – I was, after all, only six. So perhaps I’m harking back to that lost simpler time when I still wrote in pencil, grazed my knees, and listened to Pinky & Perky.  

 As predicted, I bumped into a moped-mounted Shriyani, who was between suit fittings.

She drove us to a beach where it was rather overcast and mizzling, and a village where I ordered a tender chicken fillet at a place set up for cooking classes. I was very hungry in Hoi An – it must’ve been all the fine dishes assaulting my senses. That evening, I upgraded my daily strawberry smoothies to a daiquiri for a pre-prandial drink around the boating lake.

I went to My Son in the morning, which doesn’t sound the way it’s written – not in English anyway. It was a so-so experience partly due to the Americans previously bombing most of the site out of existence, and the constant drizzle. A short late boat trip brought us home, a delay which briefly becalmed our enthusiastic guide who said most things thrice with a mildly delirious delivery that successfully transferred the native intonation into another language. On the trip, I met a charming and beautiful Ecuadorian woman. She had an exuberant lust for life that was clear from the beaming smile she bestowed on us as she took her place on the minibus. Quite the Holly Golightly with the worldly wisdom and determination of one who survives well on lavish charm. She travelled alone, but I imagined small smitten crowds flocked about her.

I was (again) woken at 1.30am thinking it was time to rise. A wave of anxiety swept over me about the question of whether the RTE editor had anonymised my cue for the Dubai piece or if my identity as a foreign critic of the regime was now established internationally.

The Early life of Luther eventually ushered me back to the Land of Nod.

Walking the Camino

A genial old Buddhist recommended walking the Camino after a meditation class in which I’d struggled to still my monkey mind.

My presence at the Jamyang Buddhist Centre in Kennington was part of a broader plan to reduce the ravages of a lifetime of insomnia. But while I savoured the peaceful atmosphere, the petty gripes, cricket averages, and mischievous imps of my imagination still bubbled up through the reverie despite the gentle encouragement of the tutors to let them drift away into the ether. An ideal state of tranquillity felt some years over the horizon, but I liked the two men – more Thames Estuary than Himalayas in provenance – who patiently suggested an alternative to the sturm und drang of my city life. The pilgrimage to the medieval city of Santiago de Compostela was invariably a life-affirming experience the sensai told me.

Some 10 years later, I finally paid heed to his advice – the idea had re-emerged during the slow cautious lift of lockdown. I had form in such ventures. Kilimanjaro and Machu Picchu to name two, while I ran a 24-mile charity walk multiple times as a youth – sometimes tethered to my team-mates. So, my habit of covering large distances on foot hails back four decades to when swiftly running many miles felt like a personal superpower once I’d conveniently forgotten the years of slog and grind through the cold muddy challenges of British winters. With less pliant knees, I now huff and hobble about the great outdoors in more age-appropriate fashion while enjoying the time and space to air my dusty thoughts.

My ambition to travel overland to Spain felt both romantic and ecologically responsible but was thwarted by the apparent impossibility of booking a ferry ticket as a solo walk-on passenger. Several efforts over several hours failed to glean any response or information from my inquiries. So instead, I saved time and money on a polluting plane. Sadly easy.

 I plumped to leave on the cusp of seasonal change in early October, hoping to avoid the extremes of heat, cold, rain, and humans. I fancied the last leg of the Portuguese Camino which begins just across the Spanish border from the walled cathedral city of Tuy. From here, I’d embark carrying little more than a small rucksack and shod in dangerously new hiking boots. Between me and my destination lay 117km of Galician countryside.

 First Port of call

 Travelling to Porto killed two birds with one stone. The Portuguese Camino is the second most popular. The first crosses the Pyrenees from France and then hugs the northern coast of Spain. Taking any of the half-dozen or so routes felt like an original venture until I met a friend of a friend at a party several weeks before my planned departure, who’d recently travelled the French way. Logistics required, he said, taking a return flight to Santiago before leaving it on a train and then returning on foot. This didn’t feel right. I’m an A to B man so this A to B to C to B routine didn’t work for me at all.

Nonetheless, he was a valuable source of information – notably about footwear – and echoed the oft-quoted claim about the Camino being an experience of a lifetime, one that chimed with my experiences of climbing mountains or ancient trails. I went to great pains to order the same hiking shoes he’d worn, but couldn’t find them in any of the multiple superstores in London. The cheap ones I bought locally were very comfortable during the 10m trial along the shop floor.

Along with a more logical itinerary, the Portugal route allowed me to crowbar in a city break to Porto, which I’d heard was redolent with cosmopolitan coastal charm. (The older I get, the more I double up on my activities, and the less I use the expression ‘Next time’. With dark realism, I accept the probability that there won’t be one.) Portugal’s insistence on speaking its own language – so like Spanish in written form and yet, in delivery, so very different, was a serious obstacle for one who likes to chat with the locals. I hoped to overcome it by learning as many simple and important words and phrases as possible while otherwise speaking Spanish with a local accent. For my two days in Portugal, the formula crudely functioned – indeed my efforts often elicited sensible and relevant responses. An exception was the receptionist at my rather stately guesthouse. She used Google translate for all conversation beyond an opening ‘Ola’ before I realised her native tongue was Arabic.  

O Porto proved a winning hand. ‘The Port’ as it’s known rather prosaically in that language is attractive, atmospheric, and easy to negotiate in distance and layout. I’d like to describe it as a Mediterranean city, but it just has the feel of one without the location. But for all the charm of its narrow winding streets, it was the architecture of sun-baked flesh that made the deepest impression. Several beautiful Portuguese women I know in Britain now make aesthetic sense having seen their sisters, cousins, and aunts in their natural setting. The men too were often handsome and healthy looking – modelling a natural and elegant poise that complemented the womenfolk. The gentle warmth of the natives was matched by the weather which remained pitch perfect for the duration of the trip. If this was autumn, it was my new favourite season.

Despite these manifold attractions, the streets of the relatively small centre were largely empty and my pre-dinner circumambulation of the north bank rustled up little until I wandered into a square of bars and restaurants busy with students. The menus were similar – all the marked difference being in the décor. I chose one that looked small and smart. My entry briefly silenced the diners much as if I was rudely interrupting a catered family event, but they soon settled down and left me to my phrase book. My trip’s largely fishy diet kicked off with a delicious fried cod and chickpea dish. When I ordered a glass of the city’s famous fortified wine, the elderly waiter hung about tensely while waiting for my approval. To my untutored palette, it was fine, but I bluffed it was wonderful, and we parted on friendly terms. Amid largely deserted streets, I took a pleasant post-prandial stroll back to my hotel via the diversion of its historic old centre.

With a tight schedule, I threw myself into an American-style whirl of tourism the next morning, rising and falling with the steep hills that lead down to the Douro river. If some houses in this world heritage site lacked a lick of paint, the old and new felt harmonised rather than separate. Brightly painted murals complemented the finely chiselled features of ancient churches highlighted with soft modern lighting. A left-wing national government was a novelty anywhere but more so here for the apparent absence of tribal blood-letting with its conservative rivals. Neither the headlines in the papers nor the graffiti on the walls screamed with hate or hysteria. Portugal felt like a nation at peace with itself.

Bathed in bright autumnal sun, a spectacular tableau of slate-roofed buildings was liberally scattered upon the river’s steep banks – larger smudges of grey marking out those belonging to the government or wine industry. I viewed the river from above and below – firstly from the pathways at the edge of its still blue waters and then when climbing back up to find the top level of the Ponte Luis 1 – a double-deck metal arch bridge that from above caters for a light train line and pedestrians. Regular traffic runs across its shorter 172m span 45m below. By the time I’d walked across, my schedule called me back over. The interiors of the churches, cellars, and libraries were fated to wait for the unlikely next time.

Nonetheless, the splendid Saô Bento train station showcased beautiful murals befitting a museum exhibit that extended my unofficial tourist visa. More came to view the murals of Jose Colaco than catch the trains. Historic and pastoral scenes are captured on 20,000 white and blue tiles. A less welcome old-school theme was the long snaking queue to a ticket office that spanned through and past several rooms. Machines built for such purpose were conspicuous by their absence. While I enjoyed the artwork, and was pleased to buy my ticket north using the vernacular, I was less thrilled to miss a train – by five minutes – that would have taken me straight to my destination. After a wait, three separate hourly journeys brought me to Nine, Viana do Castelo, and finally Valença on the border with Spain. Generous intervals were built-in between each.

From here, the timetable suggested a further 17 hours to cross the border to Tui in Spain. When I asked several fellow passengers about it, they stared as if I was insane before walking silently away. It turned out there wasn’t a direct train to Tui – for that you went via Madrid. So, I was delighted to find Tui was accessible by a cheap taxi ride right now. Without evidence, I’d imagined the border crossing might be a significant obstacle to my plans – an eccentric symptom of the discombobulation of lockdown I was yet to overcome. I’d even resigned myself to the prospect of a night on the Portuguese side. Five minutes later, I was miffed to realise I could’ve taken a pleasant walk across the bridge dividing the countries without a cursory waft of my passport.

 Cusp of the Camino

 Tuy – as Tui had now become in Spanish – was a pleasant old and sleepy town to spend my final night before setting off. The trouble I had finding a room – let alone an affordable one – was a salutary warning for the rest of my lightly organised trip. Obviously, I didn’t heed it.

Finally, I alighted on a rather brutalist and monolithic hotel that appeared from nowhere on a road I’d visited without joy an hour before. The space and cost exceeded my plans by around 50 per cent. I dined on the main drag, which despite the detritus of a dwindling festival maintained an air of small-town calm and the likelihood that most passing faces were life-long denizens on first-name terms. Brexit, let alone the 21st century, felt far from these peaceful medieval streets. After a largely foodless day, I wolfed down pizza and ice-cream in the safe knowledge that I’d be burning off a surfeit of calories in the week to come.

I gained my first Camino stamp in a book provided by the cathedral shortly after it opened at 10am. I’d’ve left earlier but the town was largely deserted for breakfast options as if I’d accidently set my watch three hours forward. Eventually, I found a local haunt opposite the hotel I’d left an hour earlier where I ordered a huge ham and cheese stuffed croissant. It was the street that kept giving, but only on a second visit. I’m sure some sententious Camino motto might be fashioned out of this unusual capacity. The stuffed croissant became a staple of my diet. It cost me three Euros along with the orange juice and café con leche.

From the cathedral, the route was unclear. I was not alone – a dozen or so others were similarly misplaced. Between us, we made several darting false starts about the ancient cobbled streets, before forming a nervous body in which we remained within sight of each other while also maintaining a social distance that followed normal international standards. It was an ad hoc hive mind that dispersed with relief into its natural constituent parts the moment we found the right way. Those of us not using the Camino app (see Habits of Young People) found excuses to stop and admire the view so someone else could lead the way.

Soon the concrete posts began to appear with their motif of a yellow indigenous scallop shell on a blue background. They marked the route and digitally register how many kilometres remain till Santiago. The lines on the shell are said to represent the nine routes of pilgrimage. The signs are supported – and occasionally contradicted – by arrows painted on trees, walls or any other semi-permanent object lining the route.

The original pilgrims – or peregrinos – often survived arduous journeys through the charity of churches sporadically lining the routes springing up across Western Europe. The needs of today’s visitors are better supplied by modern commerce, and the all-seeing mobile phones with which to book their lodgings and avoid straying from the path. Those, like me, briefly escaping the grind of responsibilities, limit themselves to walking the last 100km – the minimum expected to earn one’s certificate of pilgrimage. Some without pressing schedules trek much further. The 117km from Tuy made it a popular starting point while the full Portuguese trail along the Atlantic coast begins 619km away in Lisbon.

Santiago de Compostela is said to be the final resting point of the bones of the apostle Saint James. From the 9th century, the city became the destination for pilgrims following what became known as El Camino. It was encouraged by Spain’s rulers largely to stir up religious and national fervour against the Islamic moors occupying the south of the country.

Over 300,000 now make the journey each year along its various routes across Europe.

 First steps

 For six days, my predictable home routine was upturned. Apart from walking and sleeping, I ate when hunger converged with a convenient restaurant and stopped when I needed rest. When there was no room at the inn, I took to the road again until I found one.

Stopping for coffee after six or seven kilometres, I noted: ‘this is not a competition’ in my diary, while also noting those getting a head-start on me, and that I’d already passed 25 or so others. While it’s almost 40 years since my competitive running career ended… I still pretend it’s the Olympic final when the moment takes me. (I don’t always win, but I usually medal.)

Stamps were available here – the marks of progress needed to prove we’ve completed the Camino. (When I first saw them advertised, I figured traditional letter writing must still be a popular pastime in Spain.) Ultimately, it wasn’t an exacting requirement – a few daily stamps would satisfy the gentle inquisitors of Santiago.

Most people I passed sounded Portuguese – unsurprising considering the route, before I realised that the accents and the distinctly un-Spanish signage were probably Galician. Another region favouring independence over patriotism. In mild temperatures under another clear blue sky, I was seduced by the lush verdant country – a refreshing contrast to the arid interior I’d once bisected by train in Almeria where Sergio Leone shot his Spaghetti Western classics. Happily, the rainfall that created this tableau was unseasonably missing and my sensibly-packed waterproof went unused. Initially, the countryside resembled East Anglia in the spring; flat, green and pleasant, while interspersed too with small forests of pine. In one such wood, a bald and poker-faced policeman sat grimly alongside the path in his squad car. He avoided eye contact. With our possessions strapped to our backs, what rich pickings we pilgrims might represent to an opportunistic thief in this unknown hinterland. As I crossed an ancient stone bridge, I pondered the hazards faced in pilgrimages centuries earlier. No mobile phones and credit cards, plenty more wolves and robbers. Nowadays, the well-heeled often have their possessions trucked between their comfortable hotels. It explained the pushy emails from agencies peddling inexplicably pricey packages. 

Further on, I passed my least favourite form of musician, a bagpiper, wearing the customary grimace of fury to complement his cacophony. But following a karmic impulse to meet evil with good, I lobbed some coins into a case swimming with larger denominations. They sunk without trace or a smiling response. His nearby car was modern and plush.

A few hours hence, I took my first right/wrong turning when the path uncompromisingly divided into two signed routes heading in opposing directions. A garrulous old fellow was earnestly assuring several confused walkers of the correct way, while behind him a younger middle-aged native shook his head at me and tapped his forehead while indicating the other path. To my cost, I underestimated the wisdom of age. The elder’s suggestion was the scenic route but not in the normal sense of the expression – it was the same distance but just more scenic. I chose the one that headed interminably through the midday sun around vast deserted industrial estates. It felt far longer than its half dozen kilometres. Its ending was marked by an insalubrious graffiti-laden bridge that overhung a major highway. I lunched with beer in a roadside café to forget as much as sustain myself.

My lightly organised instincts suited the vagueness of how many kilometres I was willing to hike after the late afternoon shadows began to lengthen. An example was the mid-sized town I strolled into that felt insufficiently tranquil or far enough to be my first night’s resting place. Incongruously, without seeing it, I heard a brass band here playing YMCA – the strangest and campest of possible mirages. Conferring on suspect signage, I fell in briefly with a Colombian woman, but our relationship was snuffed out by my disinclination to lunch with her in favour of making tracks. The dice rolled another combination and instead she sat down to eat with someone else seeking rest and fodder. We never saw each other again, while pure chance threw me in with scores of others.

After guessing a pathway back into the reassuringly enclosing woods, I guided in a genial young Brazilian man and several others in danger of missing the turning. His affable companionship deserved better than chance allowed – he found me in a restaurant the following evening dining alone, but our paths crossed no more. Here too I met Bruno, a Portuguese man in his early 30s – away from his wife, young children and corporate job with Adidas. We swapped details of our lives while he told me about his home country and the politics of where we roamed. He gave the impression of finding me winningly eccentric.

Somewhere else, I circumvented a giant quarry – motionless and empty as a moonscape – before I caught up again with the same two men as we wound up to our likely encampment for the night. It was a welcoming strip of bars and restaurants whose entire existence seemed to revolve around the trade in ramblers. I saw no vehicles and its connecting roads were more suited to walking. It seemed a perfect spot to eat and drink well with some of my new companions and reflect on a satisfactory first day covering around 20km.

Here, I made possibly the biggest mistake of my Camino by not following my new friends into the hostel dormitories but instead wandering off to the strip to find a room of my own. None were available from the couple of possible venues and when I returned to the hostel it too was now full. Thanks to its young receptionist – a kind and pure soul if ever there was – I settled on slogging another six or seven kilometres – largely steeply uphill – to the next hostel where she’d rung ahead to book its one remaining bed. I set off quickly trying not to stew on the missed opportunity caused by my fussiness over sharing rooms – a situation I was now settling for anyway. I also turned down a shared taxi with a German who couldn’t contemplate another step towards the same hostel. It felt ‘like cheating’ I thought aloud. Later, she reported how stung she was by my apparent judgment! 

It was an arduous schlep. During it, I surprised some teens by passing them twice – having briefly wandered off course at an ambivalent point. Usually, a vague sign would materialise on second glance, up a tree or on the wrong side of a pillar, but they were easy to miss when thoughts were distracted by day dreams. I worried particularly about missing the hostel and spending a night in the cooling forest without a sleeping bag. Under a cloudless sky, it was now sufficiently cold to make it a seminally unpleasant experience with one.

A literally growing concern were the blisters blooming beneath the base of my toes. My new boots were snug – too snug as experience showed – and my ignorance of how to avoid blisters came back to haunt me. Chuntering all the way, I finally stumbled upon the O Corisco hostel half-way down a precipitous hill. After entering its bar on pigeon toes, I ruminated over the last few sobering hours with a large beer.

In the shower, I gingerly inspected the damage. A throbbing white blister around 3cm by 2 lay below the second and third toes of each foot along with several underlings around the toes. Nothing a good night’s sleep would remotely help. These additions to my physique set an ominous tone for a trek that should have been a cake walk.   

The sliding doors of fate threw me in with an alternative group. I found myself sharing beer and omelettes with the taxi-taking German, several of her compatriots, and two middle-aged Portuguese friends – he a lawyer still taking serious work calls, while she worked in Algarve tourism. The next evening, I found the young Germans again where we crossed the Rubicon of swapping names – a major step in this journey of random meetings.

A Slovenian widow in her 70s was bedded down next to me. She was 1,200km into her 13th Camino. The road was more home to her than her far-flung apartment, the peregrinos an ever-evolving family. Two adult daughters occasionally met her along the way, her husband having died long ago. Thinkers and artists she’d known in her youth were described with a passion that hinted at more than casual friendship. Her long time on the road restricted her to €20 hostels, but like many – regardless of income – she relished the company of pilgrims.

I came to better appreciate the purity of this communal experience but it was also kept in check by tales of sleepless nights among farting snoring room-mates. I resolved to challenge this ‘need’ for personal space, but it didn’t stop me booking a hotel room for the next evening. Traditionally, the Camino offered basic sleeping facilities in large church halls, but I didn’t see any. These were used by the characters in the film The Camino starring Martin Sheen who follows in the footsteps of his estranged son who died during the trip.

To avoid the insomnia of the shared room, I read outside it on a sofa until my eyes drooped and the sleeping tablet took its course. The long-winded whispering of two young women across the doorway to my room, and the constant to-ing and fro-ing from dorms to bathroom supported the argument for separate rooms for all but the heaviest sleepers.  

 Path of pain

 We entered the dark lanes well before dawn. When the elaborate coffee machine failed to deliver, we had no reason to remain.

I left alone to avoid committing to companionships that might become harder to break the longer we kept apace. This dilemma had occurred comically the evening before when striking off on my final slog. After chatting with a young Spanish couple, walking slightly slower than suited me, I wished them a Buen Camino before inching ahead of them for the next half hour. They’d have needed 20 minutes before I was far enough away to discuss whether I was being rude. I pondered a farewell wave when the distance between us hit 50m.

My tentative movement in the dark was less about not seeing the path than the pain of every step. Walking around the sole of the foot rather than on it was not viable – more than half a century of walking conventionally was not a good foundation for suddenly learning a new method. I fumed at the injustice of now being the slowest walker on the circuit. Scores of pilgrims/bastards passed me by. My grumpiness festered over breakfast at a bakery. It curdled over late morning coffee. Sometime that morning, one of the large blisters burst. It was announced by a sharp flash of wet pain.

By lunch, I entered a quaint old town of Roman origins built around a small lake. A hundred or so jolly souls – mainly Irish of a certain age – gathered on the far side of a river brooked by an ancient arched bridge. I hailed a Spaniard from the previous night’s hostel who completely misunderstood me and moved away awkwardly. The confidence drained out of my language skills and I limped along alone and self-pityingly. I pondered how no-one seemed friendly today and how instrumental my mood was in this change. People were now much more annoying than full of genial promise. Even the Portuguese couple, whom I’d met again over a coffee and pastry were tight-lipped when I passed them en route. Ashen-faced, he was fiddling with his shoes – the fact I was passing them reminded me I probably wasn’t the only one suffering.

For several hours, the path looped around a woodland section that felt like the natural habitat for hobbits or fauns. On any other day, I’d have found it idyllic. No other walkers were glimpsed on its interminable meandering route and I became paranoid about wandering off piste or in circles. I fantasised about sleeping in a sandy grove around the pebble-strewn rivulet where I might bathe my feet better. It was probably the longest 24km of my life.        

The sun was barely waning when I arrived in Pontevedra. The three Germans waved from a railway station bar. The feet of one were similarly afflicted, but together we spent a cheerful beery few hours before heading off to our respective hotels. Mine was only a few hundred metres away. It was a surreal affair – a totally automated hotel without a physical member of staff. When I tried to buzz myself in – a disembodied human, based elsewhere, confirmed my booking – for seven days hence. Seems I’d selected the wrong date with a misdirected finger in the gloom of my hostel room. Thankfully, I could also book a room for tonight, which was perhaps not surprising as the 4-storey building had no more guests than staff. But from the empty foyer, a second disembodied voice offered me no assurance of a refund for the first booking. In fact, her agency had a clear no-refund policy for the digitally challenged. One night here could thus prove eight times more expensive than my friendly little hostel. I’d love to say the shower and bed were eight times better, but they were not.

The least I could do was enjoy a slap-up dinner at a sparsely filled Argentinean restaurant. I helped two gruff Texans order the largest steaks in town. I took the third and washed it down with red wine. Eating an Argentinean meal in Galicia, I could hardly complain about its meat and no veg composition or that it didn’t taste as good as a steak in Argentina. While I pondered dessert, the smiling face of the Brazilian pressed up against my window. He came in to chat and we made a vague and unsuccessful plan to meet along the way. His gentle and sweet manner contrasted with the Texans, who talked tough and straight of bitter divorces, big cars, and lusty women. I’d been relieved not to be invited over.

In bed, I started reading Man’s Search for Meaning by the psychiatrist and concentration camp survivor Victor Krankl. Another perspective was useful. I was on holiday goddammit.  

 Walking therapy

 My hope of a good night’s sleep was dashed between midnight and 3am by what sounded like a TV news team broadcasting next door – the first sign of other humans. The volume on the telly was turned up full. Banging on the wall achieved nothing nor did several visits to the door on which my initial polite raps had – by my third visit – risen to clubbing blows that provided the bass line to the frantic machine-gun speech of the Spanish newsreaders. Nothing. Earplugs worked only in a decorational sense. In the morning, I flipped their Do Not Disturb sign.

Initially, I was prepared to vigorously argue my case over the twice-booked room. Several recent bad experiences with budget airlines had left me feeling the corporate world really was out to get me. But today, in the spirit of my venture, I elected to find goodness in others by personally modelling – if not quite feeling – it. So, I explained what had happened to the three-dimensional human – in this case, a full-sized fleshy young woman. Without hesitation, she cancelled my second night while charging me the lower rate for the first. Just like that. Despite the non-refundable talk. The refund duly turned up on my bank balance.

Extraordinary.

Faith in humanity restored, I mentioned my disturbed night’s sleep as if it was an amusing story. ‘Oh her, she’s very old,’ she replied, ‘practically deaf.’ Not what I envisioned. In my head, a drunk middle-aged male was projecting his hatred of a rejecting world onto whoever crossed his path. How sexist and ageist of me. But I didn’t feel guilty for switching the sign. Being old is not an excuse for behaving like an arsehole.

I returned to the train station café for another huge ham and cheese croissant and several coffees to line my stomach for the travails ahead. Soon after, I left the pleasant cobbled streets on the regular morning activity of reconnecting with the trail. I enjoyed this part of the day where the flow of the broader streams of the community were met before the channel narrowed again to a steady persistent trickle of international marchers. The locals usually showed a benign face towards the ever-changing interlopers – not least for the budget business we stimulated. It was a time to soak up the ambience, pause and explore… I mounted a steep column of steps on which an ancient church stood awkwardly as if wondering where all its old friends had slipped away. Outside its mighty doors, a couple of battered and beleagured souls were grateful for my low denomination coins. Fewer worshippers stood inside its dim and lavish interior.

I befriended a 21-year-old Bavarian woman, who had dogged my footsteps while we were seeking the scent of the elusive trail. Laura related dark stories from her childhood, heavy decisions weighing on her future, and how she’d barely spoken to her parents in a year. She had walked from Porto. With those she communed, she sought wisdom and answers to the big questions – the Camino was not an escape or distraction but a place to seek elusive truths; the strangers a better substitute for the disappointment of family.

While old enough to be her estranged father, I was soon telling her about my own false steps and youthful folly, which she mulled over with a wisdom beyond her years. Perhaps her lack of secure attachments gave her an ageless air –the other walkers just fellow travellers further down the path of life. She chided me for wanting a single room rather than a hostel dorm, but I invoked the right of seniority to pay more for what I wanted. She suggested my blisters were par for the Camino course, which I assented to with a grimace, while thinking how easy that would be to say without them. We parted in a little village where she stopped for lunch. I admired her maturity in suggesting we break our bond. Of course, I may have just become tedious company.

Earlier, I had amused her by transforming my ‘magic trousers’ into shorts by removing the bottom halves at the zips around the knees. I was relieved when they later reconnected – they were the only long strides I’d brought. My small rucksack was sparsely packed to be within the carry-on limit – almost every item had at least two uses aside from the three (slim) books and the bulky camera I regretted bringing. With such perfect shooting conditions, my photos were adequately framed by a smartphone serving as camera and computer. What I lacked was an app to stop me getting lost. Apparently, the developer had just died, and with it the upgrade for users of my model. This became an issue several hours hence…

When parting with Laura, I had stridden decisively up a steep stretch of hill pursuing the same direction. No sign was glimpsed around its crossroads. It proved my biggest diversion. I soon found myself on a motorway denuded of walkers and occupied only by a hurtling tonnage of steel and freight. A different – and more prominent – form of signage confirmed I was still heading towards Santiago. The high-speed vehicles returned me to the modern age – not least the idea that in normal life I’d reach my destination within the hour rather than the three days I now hoped were enough.

I stopped at a roadside café for coffee, rest from the sun-soaked road, and to regain my bearings. The atmosphere was half-friendly. A small local clientele passed through as part of a daily ritual while I – a foreigner wandering in lost from a major road – came from a separate flow of humanity that stopped briefly if at all. The bartender reassured me the Camino was close but clearly not just over yonder… I left with vague instructions where to re-join it – something that needed several more kilometres, an hour or so, and more inquiries. Inevitably, my feet were getting worse and I winced at every penalty metre.

I gave up trying to make sense of contradictory and vague directions and instead walked in a straight line across all terrain until I crossed the path. After all, I thought, the road was pointing towards Santiago so the parallel walking route couldn’t defy geometric logic too far. I climbed a steep hill and across several paths until with a whoop of delight, I glimpsed the long-lost friend of a yellow and blue marking on a stubby concrete post. The post marked a hamlet in which several tethered horses outside a wooden homestead gave an impression that I was passing through a rural outpost of the 17th Century. It was much nicer than I expected.

From here, almost any refuge would do. After passing through a vineyard, I spied one possible oasis in the opposite direction from the road – but figured the 400m diversion would be worth the reward. But it was closed for an obscure festival and I wandered back disconsolately. Three or four times, I entered idyllic lodgings with no vacancies – the disappointment redoubled by the friendly welcome I received from receptionists thinking I’d booked ahead. Confronted with such regular mirages, I struggled to reconcile myself to the full march to Caldas de Reis.

Most set off earlier to avoid the afternoon sun. For the mad dogs remaining, the symptoms often showed in the dark haunted demeanours of those too long under its baleful spell. I reeled in a trio of Korean women deliriously singing what sounded like songs of praise. One giggled with embarrassment to be so found mid-song, while the lead vocal warbled on obliviously as if consumed by holy hooch. The day earlier, a platoon of their country folk had been the only pilgrims I’d seen visibly proclaiming the faith.

Later, far too much later, with the sun sinking low, I reached the town, 20 more kilometres behind me and a further 45 to Santiago. To complete the emerging mathematical pattern (27-24-20), I’d need more than the three further days I’d budgeted. My feet alone would need that long to recover.

At the first roadside inn, a woman resembling a youthful Juliette Binoche offered me a basic room with shared bathroom for 18 Euros. If I possibly wanted to pay that much. Where a young Bavarian might have passed on by, I ordered a large beer and settled down in the bar outside. On the next table, a wiry and energetic old gent with undertones of central Europe greeted me with gestures and words of unbridled joy. For several minutes, we spoke happy gibberish in languages that did not overlap at any point. His wife, a possible influence on his enthusiasm for the company of others, remained studiously aloof.

 And on the fourth day he rested

 I elected to hole out in Caldas de Reis on the sensible basis that I couldn’t walk a step without wincing in pain. A day off wasn’t enough to heal any blisters, but gave me time to belatedly buy some proper walking socks, which might diminish the on-going damage along with – more importantly – some powerful painkillers to help me ignore them. The town is known for its hot springs –  information I was sadly missing at the time.

I enjoyed the company at my pied a tierre – the worldly charms of the Spanish receptionist were complemented by those of her male counterpart – a rugged bearded man who’d insisted I kept his lighter as well as the cigarette I’d cadged off him. He also complimented my Spanish – always a good route to my heart – in the conversation following one where he clearly hadn’t understood me. I liked these people. I also booked a second night without issue – the facilities and pricing being pitched at exactly my level. The only discord occurred later that night when what sounded like a long drunken harangue emanated from somewhere below. In the morning, the languid smiles of the staff suggested sleep rather than bloodshed had brought the incident to a close.   

I whiled away the afternoon in a narrow woody park that bordered the wide Rio Umia – the channels of which spread about the town. I read, sketched the scene, and rearranged my posture on park benches and riverside steps without ever getting comfortable. Only one small portion of my body wanted rest and every slight movement was interrupting it. The rest of me was desperate to make tracks so I brooded over the enforced idleness.

More positively, I mused how the schoolkids who wandered by in the late afternoon sun had an enviable environment in which to grow up – perhaps one pleasant enough to resist the lure of city lights. Unable to wander at leisure in my usual looping manner about the unknown streets, I was limited to the straightest line between my room at one end of town and my eating and shopping expeditions in its sleepy centre.

The lost day necessitated two full walks in the next two to avoid cutting my schedule too fine. I wondered about taking a taxi to the next town as it would cut out 15km but still give a total over 100km… But then I re-read the protocol stating that the last 100km should be walked. The end of that smart idea. I considered procuring some crutches and wondered how painful armpit blisters would be because clearly, I’d get the wrong size crutches. 

On both nights, I dined at a pleasant and busy restaurant alongside a shallow fast-flowing rivulet running beneath the bridge in the centre of town. On the first night, a large party of tourists socialised noisily outside. For the duration of my meal, one woman’s insane laughter cut through the hum like a jagged knife. If she was my friend, I’d probably have felt protective about the querying stares she’d inevitably attract, but I was dining alone so found her rather annoying. But part of me envied the group fun. En famille, for example, it’s unlikely I’d settle for a single beer and glass of wine, and the setting and time would allow conversations public and private of all shades and weights. But then again, I relished the hours and days, alone and removed from a more habitual automated existence.

Back in my large empty room, I wondered if I’d sleep through the stinging from my trotters, but thanks to the physical travails off the preceding days, I was out like a light.

 Return of the Mad Dog

 Awake at 5am, I felt emboldened for the big push. I swallowed the first of my 3g painkillers and carefully bandaged my feet. With the natural support of adrenalin, I felt no pain strolling through the deserted town amid the splashes of streetlights which helped me navigate about the shadows. Soon, I was plunged into a wood that smothered me in total darkness.

Beyond the town, there was no light for eyes to adjust to. Luckily, somewhere ahead, a walker travelled by the torch on her phone and I followed her slowly and doggedly for the next few hours while the sun slept lazily on. Invigorated and determined, I couldn’t help passing the trio who emerged audibly ahead around the beacon of light. I greeted them eerily – one dark shadow looming towards several others, and put my trust in the rising sun.

Soon after its coming, I breakfasted in the garden of a pleasant path-side café. The seats were wet with dew or rain – the only evidence of the season’s ambivalence. It gave me the chance to thank the trio of light-bearing women when they arrived. They smiled back warmly. Things are rarely sinister when they have stepped out of the concealing shadows.  

Peaceful hamlets lined the hilly route for much of the morning. My pace was fast and steady, the painkillers stifling all dissent from below – the kilometres passed with satisfying regularity. Fifteen clicks were eaten up before noon. I lunched in Padron, town of the famed peppers where I strolled beneath a tree-shaded promenade alongside a river and Romanesque bridge. From here, I traversed open fields and winding narrow paths through medieval-looking villages hewn from ancient blocks of stone around which barely employed street cats paraded while peering smugly at fenced and fated chickens.

Connected again in spirit with my fellow walkers, my revitalised and energetic striding nonetheless allowed no dawdling. My smile found and fed other smiles. A friendly American woman and I got chatting for a while. Her adult husband refused to join in until he found a reason to make her stop with him. Perhaps he was in that place I’d been. At one stage, I passed several dismounted cyclists who’d overtaken me an hour or so earlier. They stonily ignored my greeting. Later, a mobile bike mechanic eyed me strangely. I wondered if the tribal hatred embraced towards different transport users existed on the trail, but I was in a fine mood so took their ambivalence as a compliment.   

By mid-afternoon, a natural fatigue was creeping up as the residue of adrenalin and analgesic ebbed away. Weary but happy, I persevered to find the right place rather than any one – every hundred metres more would be less to travel tomorrow. The route began to follow the roads converging on Santiago – the countryside was running out of itself. An atmospheric old hotel boasting better days loomed tantalisingly ahead on one confluence of road and path, but I elected to keep moving despite its magnetic promise of eccentricity.

A little further on, a roadside inn off a busy road hinted at cosy charm. First, I stopped off in a neighbouring store – possibly the set of a Spanish version of Deliverance. It sold almost literally everything including, I imagined, the shrunken heads of peregrinos. The cashier was shaken by my presence and talk of e-cigarettes – so much so he left the room to call the senior partner – possibly the smarter brother – to better deal with my difficult questions.

My instincts were right about the inn – the room was large and comfortable, all for €20, and I reclined contentedly within it – mightily pleased with the lack of further damage to my numbed feet from the 26km behind me. The only diner, I enjoyed an excellent Pomfret with a rich tomato sauce and a complement of the region’s jealously guarded vegetables. The maternal waitress was so touched by my compliments that she brought out the chef and the pair – possibly related by marriage such was their affectionate bond – seemed tickled by my presence and compliments. With a wink, he drenched my tarta de abuela in brandy.       

 Santiago de Compestela

 For my final day’s trekking, I left at a respectable hour though it was still dark as I dropped off my key for the sleeping hosts. The last 19km flowed easily past. With the total in the teens, I felt nostalgic about the rapid countdown. And to think I’d worried about not finishing. Ha! It felt like the stadium lap at a marathon’s end, but 50 times longer so it extended my celebration enough to fix it in my memory. Several coffee stops allowed me to savour it further, but with the competing pull of finishing the task, I didn’t tarry long.

Painkillers were needed more than ever – the cumulative damage flourished in all its vile visual glory however much the screams of the pain receptors were muted. But with the window of recovery opening in a handful of hours, it no longer mattered.

The countryside flattened out towards the urban centre by my late morning arrival into the suburbs where townies and converging walkers mingled. The signage became more elusive and I latched onto clusters of peregrinos homing in on the quarry at its centre. With the adrenalin running dry, fatigue crept up and demanded its overdue claim.  

Finally, around half one, I entered the narrow-cobbled streets of the old town above which peered the cathedral spires. From one, I entered the brightness of a sunlit plaza filled with hundreds of jubilant pilgrims gathered at last in groups that were no longer strung out and silent. I wondered about the procedure, some final marking of my card, but that technical formality could wait, wherever that took place, and part of me questioned the need for a bureaucratical blessing anyway. For a while, I settled back on my haunches and took some snaps, relieved and free of pressing thoughts. I had no others with whom to exchange congratulations so digitally announced my arrival to some far-flung friends.

I delayed the inevitable and tiresome task of finding somewhere to sleep. But a room surely preceded the promised joys of food and drink so finally I followed my usual method of veering off in ever increasing circles. The first candidate lay close by in an alley off the square. All mod cons in the compact structure of a Parisian studio flat with free ice-cream gifted from the shop fronting it. It wasn’t cheap at €60 or so, but the nice young man on the desk suggested I seize my chance. It was only available for one night, so I headed off briefly for an alternative, but it was soon clear there was none. I reminded myself that the jubilation of the walkers in the square was repeated daily, and by people who booked ahead.

Later, I queued for my certificate and almost gave up after being sent to the back for some procedural error. A sweet old man, a volunteer marshal of the lines, sensed injustice and led me to the front. He’d just been roundly abused by a grumpy old git standing ahead of me for not being Hispanic. Possibly the only clear gesture of unkindness I witnessed that week. I conveyed my gratitude, and commiserations for his ill-treatment, but regretted not rounding on the perpetrator of meanness. A few questions from a smiling woman were more amiable than inquisitorial. My certificate was created in a few brief seconds. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting.  

Much of the waning day was spent limping around for the next day’s lodgings. Wise locals assured me nothing was available. The internet told me to leave town. Happily, mindless optimism was rewarded by a room coming free in my very own micro hotel. For slightly more money, a larger room with a street view. The lost hours hobbling from door to door I edited out. At one point, I’d requested a room from the same man twice in 20 minutes.

Despite this good fortune, my constrained movement brought on the grumps. My customary lazy stroll around the neighbourhood to find the perfect dining spot did not complement my swollen beleaguered feet. So inevitably the one I settled on without due diligence came with a sullen waiter and a menu that left me unsated. The cuttlefish was pleasant, but very alone.

My evening’s frustrations infiltrated my dreams. In one, I behaved appallingly at a family party held in my honour where I threatened a close friend with an ashtray. Demonic but painfully aware of my fall from angelic grace.   

For my final day, I debated visiting Finisterre – the wave-crashed cliffs marking the edge of the known world before Columbus blundered into the Americas. For many, it rounds off the Camino itinerary. But I followed my unconscious promptings and wrote it off as a gimmick. After all, it was devalued when the edge of the world was discovered instead to be just off the coast of Ireland. Perhaps not even there if this round earth theory holds up.

Instead, I visited a museum for pilgrims. It was surprisingly objective in its discussions on the religious beliefs that underlay the Camino. I recalled a similar take in a documentary on the Vatican where the authorities were open to discovering alien life – so much so they sought it from its official observatory. Small consolation for Galileo, perhaps, but it shows how reasonable people can be when no longer holding all the cards of power.  

The cathedral was awash with gold, presumably purloined from drastic misadventures in Latin America. I visited the reputed tomb of Saint James – the gentle apostle washing up a long way from home. He was transposed into a warrior – a figurehead to inspire the Spanish empire to plunder the New World and commit genocide upon tens of million. Saint James was celebrated with a bloody moniker – Mataindios – killer of Indians. Not very New Testament.

By nightfall, I’d regained the serenity that kept breaking through the pain. I found a pleasant spot in which to be contentedly immobile drinking copas of vino tinto after a breaded beef Napoletana. Two Dutchmen in the early years of retirement bought me another drink when I made space for them on my table. These affable old work mates represented a different type of peregrino – perhaps less pure in the eyes of some for the sin of paying an agency to lodge them comfortably each night. The only book they followed was self-penned, grounded, and eminently sensible. They’d had a lovely time and didn’t need a certificate to prove it. Their experience clarified how much easier mine might have been. This 56-year-old was struck by just how grown up they seemed.  

The journey home was a breeze and completed my recovery from post-lockdown hodophobia – that’s fear of travelling says Google. The local bus took me to the airport without any nefarious tricks and the clean, sparsely populated airport operated like a slick, friendly machine. The flight was a breeze and no-one commented on the odour of my clothes. Even the train strike caused barely a ripple of inconvenience with a bus – albeit a very slow one – bringing me close to home without me having to lift a foot.

Within three days, I was walking normally. The skin was still shedding from my feet a fortnight later. The memories remain strong enough to plan another. My first action will be to donate my haunted walking boots.        

A Fortnight in the Caucasus

The Caucasus wasn’t really on my radar until Sarah took a meal in a Georgian restaurant. The word Khatchapuri – best described as a Georgian cheese pie – entered the lexicon of our household. Her mission to trace the pie to its source began to take the form of an obsession that went far beyond a dangerous calorific intake.

I like cheese, but there’s a limit to how far I will go for it. So a little research beyond the menus was needed to sell me to this mountainous spot on the cusp of Asia. But I was soon drawn to its history of clashing empires and a mythology based on dragons, giants, and heroic quests. The happy packs of wild dogs and the psychopathic nature of its drivers went unmentioned in the literature…  

David the Builder airport, Kutaisi, Georgia. 1.30am.

Disappointingly, there were no signs displaying the unlikely name of the airport. It references one of the nation’s favourite sons – an empire builder from the Middle Ages rather than a brickie you might meet in the local pub. For what it’s worth, the fabled city of Colchis, where Jason sought the Golden Fleece is often identified with Kutaisi.

Our apartment owner, Mischa, picked us up. He was cheerful and drove safely. At the time, we had no idea how novel this was. The décor of his spacious apartment was mixed and uncompromising – cornucopias of fake fruit, elaborate kitsch ornaments, and plastic coffee beans broke up the yawning spaces. But nothing to actually eat or drink. We went shopping at 2am. The two young assistants were warily hidden in shadowy corners of the supermarket; the cashier smiled when we thanked her Georgian-style with a madlobt.

In the morning, we took the bus to the 11th Century monastery at Gelati. I sat down next to a grizzly old fellah with a long straggly beard. He looked vaguely homeless and shot me a cryptic glance. When we arrived at the site, he turned out to be one of the resident priests. Sarah sniffed out the ancient tomb of David the Builder. I scanned the impressive murals inside – half expecting to find Damien glaring out from a quiet corner. Outside, a trio of men strummed lutes and sang beautiful haunting folks songs.

Gelati monastery

We lunched in a restaurant that overlooked it. The menu was packed with cheese dishes. Our Khachapuri was enough to feed two. Before it arrived, we ordered a Caesar salad to help fill us up. It was also enough to feed two. It came with two types of meat and lots more cheese.

Greetings are rarely effusive here. ‘English or Russian?’ is a question commonly asked. The older folk meet us with inscrutable gazes. This detachment towards outsiders perhaps reflects the mutual suspicion of foreigners from the Soviet era. Or conversely, the fear of the onrushing outside world now that the capitalists have broken down the gates.

Cows, like dogs, wonder everywhere freely. The dogs are all tagged and neutered and seem completely trusting of humans. For two weeks, a happy affectionate dog was rarely an outstretched arm away. Sometimes we felt bad about leaving them, before watching them move off to the next table without a backward glance. The idea of owning a dog now seems slightly perverse.

Day 3

 Before we set off to Gori, our marshrutka driver became enraged with one of his colleagues. (Marshrutkas are vans that operate as taxis over short or long distances.) With no clues given by the alien language, we could only observe the body language as the larger man snarled and pushed his slighter rival out of his territory. The latter retreated, his tail between his legs. Our driver channelled his simmering aggression into his driving. The grumpy gruffness of the men over 40 needs no translation.

We saw our first dog on a lead; a pampered slave doomed to only dream of roaming the streets freely with his thousands of emancipated cousins.

We visited Stalin’s museum. Very few signs in English – very few facts in Georgian. It would have been interesting to hear the translated gist of the tour guides. From their tone, the mass murderer was involved in many funny stories. Six pictures accounted for the 20 million or so victims. Jolly, serious, handsome, and heroic seemed to be the pictorial messages depicted of Old Joe. Along with romanticised paintings of his earlier life, the museum grounds contained his personal train carriage, his entire family home, and a thousand fawning gifts from rugs to vases on which his smiling inspired face was emblazoned.  

Stalin’s personal carriage

We met a German guy, Thomas, over coffee outside the Museum. He recounted his past work as UN observer in South Ossetia and how the nearby Russians are stirring up trouble and shifting the border. Nobody in the outside world seems to care. He seemed starved of proper conversation. Now married to a Georgian woman, he confessed that his head was now too full of Spanish, French and English to fit in another language.

On the way to our guest house, we made two local dogs delirious with the remains of a sausage. Sniffing further riches, they followed us for the next three blocks.

For sundown, we visited the old fortress on the hill.

Khachapuli for dinner – a beef stew made with green plums. Very rich, herby and nourishing. Sarah looked happy with her borsch.

Other guests popped out of the shadows of the large sprawling guest-house. Friendly chaos amongst the packed bookshelves and the aged expensive-looking hard wood furniture. Our landlady reminded me of her Croatian equivalents – her kindness largely concealed beneath a stern veneer.  

Not for the first time, breakfast was plentiful but difficult to stomach in quantity. Lots of hard boiled eggs, dodgy porridge, and salty cheese; little in way of juices, plain bread, milk or honey. I siphoned some of it off for the dogs to avoid looking ungrateful.  

The caves of Uplistsiche

In the morning, we headed for the troglodyte cave town of Uplistsiche. Inhabited up to 5,000 years ago, this pre-Christian site was sanctified in the usual way: a church sitting atop the caves sold relics and candles. On the way, our driver shouted at Sarah when she tried to engage the defunct seatbelt. He angrily snatched it from her hands as if her gesture was a personal insult to his skills. 

Day 4 - Tiblisi

We took a marshrutka from Gori to Tiblisi. It only took an hour due to him driving like the clappers, which turned out to be Georgian cruising speed. With my travel-card existence at home, I had forgotten how dangerous non-rail driving can be.

The city reminded me or Prague or Budapest despite being 4,000km further east. Lots of international tourists gave it a stag-friendly feel. Irish football shirts on men of a certain age were filling the quarter in readiness for a European qualifier. All seemed delighted with the low prices and high quality fare. The ancient spot-lit fortress on the hill provides one focal point; elsewhere fading buildings from bygone eras perch at the top of precipitous cliffs. Taking a post-prandial stroll could be spectacularly fatal.

Dinner alone in German-Georgian restaurant as Sarah had a bad tummy. The trout in a creamy mushroom sauce was great but lonely without vegetables. ‘Service with no smiles’ was the title of my first TripAdvisor review. Nobody met my eye, bar the trio of musicians who were possibly chained to the bar.

Terrible night’s sleep. I dreamt I was a dentist with a full roster of clients waiting impatiently. Even in my dreams, I am not a dentist. Woke up in a cold sweat.

We are staying at Hotel Jerusalem in Bethlehem. To remember how to get home, I just thought of the Bible. We have a balcony big enough for us to relax in the sun without crowding each other. A nice spot beneath the looming statue of Mother Georgia on the hill who stands proud, full-breasted, and armed with a sword and cup of wine. She stands alongside the old walls of the city fortress. A surreal mix of East, West and Medieval.

It is more accurate to describe the legendary Georgian hospitality as mythological. I now realise how dissimilar these two words can be.  An exception to this is George, our receptionist at the hotel, who appears to run the establishment single-handedly though he occasionally phoned Mr (or Mrs) Big when serious decisions loomed. A sepia-tinted portrait hanging in the lobby suggested the former. In the musty-smelling reception, George can be found wrapped in a pink blanket late at night. This morning, I broke the shower. It was a calamitous five minutes due to it being a very powerful piece of work. George stalled the watery carnage temporarily by switching off the water supply after I sought him out wearing a small towel to protect my modesty. He got soaked for his troubles, but didn’t seem to bear a grudge. 

Yesterday, I took a picture for a couple. Afterwards, the man raised his first and cried: ‘Long Live Ukraine!’ I’m not sure if he was making a point to me or just unable to restrain his patriotism. His girlfriend looked embarrassed.

We had an excellent lunch in which we injected some rarely served vegetables into our diet. I had a stew heavily involving aubergines – Sarah had a cauliflower soup that didn’t stint on the cream. We ate outside beside a pianist who many people photographed enthusiastically without thinking to tip. She was very grateful for our own contribution and applause. A Russian trio were equally appreciative. On leaving, I smiled at the man. He responded with a meaningful look that was literally full of mean. The smile of a man who is about to fight you to death in the amphitheatre. It may have been a status thing: I had only one woman with me, he had two.

Later, we were tempted into a fancier restaurant than usual by a slick young man with a smile and all the answers. He gave the impression he would one day go far in an unrelated field. I had a succulent creamy garlic chicken; Sarah countered with a trout. We finished off with some chacha – a Georgian brandy. Churchill allegedly liked it more than the French version. Stalin sent it to him by the case-full.

Tiblisi centre

Sleep was short-lived due to a neighbouring tourist talking loudly from the early hours till dawn in an endless monologue just loud enough to keep me awake. Before this, my dreams conjured up Sally Gunnell, who talked me through her athletics career in an atmosphere of mild eroticism. I was concerned that I hadn’t washed, but also suspected that she liked it. Later, Penelope Cruz flashed me unexpectedly. In another episode, I realised I had travelled two days back in time. I tried to ring my friend Jake to warn him that something mildly disappointing was due to befall him. I forgot what – so didn’t bother.

In the evening, we took the train to Yerevan. Third Class.

Slow Train to Yerevan

Four genial Ukrainians were seated and bedded across from us. We shared snacks and Georgian wine. One of them was a veteran from fighting the Russians in the Crimea. His friends implied he had suffered some form of shell-shock and gestured to a scar on the back of his head. When I asked about the size of their country – twice the area of ours, but with only 40 million people, one of them ruefully added that following the Russian invasion it might now, of course, be less. It was a longer conversation waiting to happen. Russians slept all about us. One was asked by a fellow passenger to open her window to cool the carriage. She heard him out before refusing with a laugh.

Leaving on the mid-evening train from Georgia

Third Class proved fine if a little malodorous. We’ve already booked First for our return in two days. We would have no-one else to blame for undesirable smells.

Crossing the frontier was protracted rather than problematic. We disembarked on the Georgian side, but the guards restricted themselves to stern looks and temporary possession of our passports rather than trying to sift much sense from the babble of languages and nationalities. There is no real lingua franca here – the closest probably being Russian.  Sinister comedy was provided by two stern state spinsters. The first was our carriage quartermaster and sergeant-major. She thrust a blanket and towel on me as we voyaged out and prodded me awake as Yerevan hove into early morning view.

The second was part of the border guard assigned to any potentially evil aspects of the job. She reminded me of Aunt Lydia in The Handmaid’s Tale, but without the speck of humanity. She inspected our bodies with a torch at point-blank range, ruffling the blankets of small innocent children, on the scent of potential deceit. I was up reading and gave her a smile. She didn’t like it one bit.

Day 7 - Yerevan

We stayed in a very comfortable MyHotel where the youngish staff were happy and helpful and provided large buffet breakfasts to power us through the day. The 20 pounds or so we paid a head for our luxurious room was probably worth five times that in real terms, but we were still treated like honoured guests despite our grimy appearance.  

We have upgraded our two nights in Armenia to four – still too few on reflection. Our walk from the train station via the city square early on Saturday morning was uninspiring, but the bland characterless architecture was deceptive. These two destinations were the first two stops on the Soviet tour we took the following morning. Our vivacious guide, Shushara, bubbled over with information that was garnished with tales of her parents’ comical Soviet-era behaviour. She helped us change our tickets back to Tiblisi to gift us another two days in Armenia.

Yerevan with Mount Ararat in the distance

Things we learned: employment is now around 80 per cent – 20 per cent down from Soviet times; Russian is still the second language at school, but English is now taught i.e. when in doubt, ask a child; when Sarah asked if there were any statues of women,  most of the minibus, and all of the women made an ‘aah!’ sound in recognition of her perspicacity; the basement of the national museum houses the head of Stalin’s statue, though they deny it; the Russians and US are vying for influence on the government after the bloodless popular revolution of the previous year; Mount Ararat is the symbol of the country, but was gifted to Turkey by Russia a century ago and remains tantalisingly in view from Yerevan; neither the UK nor Ireland officially recognise the Armenian genocide; the latter took place over an extended period before 1915-1920 with various pogroms preceding it; Charles Aznavour is a much loved Armenian, Kim Kardashian a more dubious role model, while Cher is a bit Armenian (one-quarter); some people get away with saying ‘merci’, which originated with linguistically lazy French Armenians.

On this last point, it’s easy to make friends in Yerevan. All you do is say ‘Shnorhakalutyun’ for thank you. With few exceptions, the recipients break into a smile and decide to like you forever. For the same reason, it’s harder to make friends after you’ve been drinking. Saying ‘Shnor…’ and giving up gets you nowhere. Nonetheless, the people seem a little gentler in Armenia than their Georgian neighbours, however you thank them.

Shushara told us about Kanye West and Kim Kardashian’s recent visit to Armenia. An impromptu gig by West ended when he jumped into a lake followed by sections of the crowd. Bottled West water is now being sold on eBay. Capitalism with its swarms of willing fools has now surely arrived.

The afternoon that followed was spent drinking with three travellers from the tour. Our little party consisted of Adam, an American with a winning smile, fresh from the Peace Corp in Mexico; Helena, recently graduating with a Masters in Holland, before now heading reluctantly home to blighty; and a New Zealander, Amanda, who like the others was travelling far and wide for an unspecified time. They averaged less than 30 and were generally wise and independent beyond their years.

The drinking began on our last stop of the tour when we were offered chacha by a sculptor from whom most of us bought a bust of Lenin. It is probably his top-selling product though the buyers, I imagine, are generally from countries without a Soviet past. He was delighted for us to join him in several rounds. It probably marked the end of his day’s useful work. The afternoon was pleasantly lost in the dappled light of café courtyard amid wine and chacha with our new friends. Budgets disintegrated into thin air. Things fell pleasantly apart.

Later, Sarah and I dined on beef and prunes, and one more beer. For some reason, Sarah’s came without the sauce so the ensuing FOMO was justified. Our young wide-eyed waitress was incredulous when Sarah ordered another drink without me. Both the action and reaction became a recurring scenario.

Many of the Armenian women are very beautiful. The thick black hair of the younger women sweeps long and thick down to their waists. I never felt stirred to say this in Georgia despite a rather optimistic (Georgian) website claiming otherwise. Another myth.

For our first evening meal out, Sarah had a yen for an Armenian barbecue, or Khorovat, and we ended up in a smart place after a prolonged walk past various atmospheric and inviting places. On entering, I was already a little hangry – a situation not helped when one of the chefs engaged me in a staring competition. As I was a customer, the fact that I won – after extra time – was hardly a satisfactory victory, or the way I wanted to start a meal. The waiter was brusque and cut Sarah off when she asked about the wine – preferring to answer a question we hadn’t asked. Our expected order failed to materialise. An embarrassment of meat turned out to be two small pork chops. When we inquired about the lost lamb, he insisted, for no good reason that if we still wanted it, we now needed to pay triple the advertised price. The mood turned sour. We paid in cash due to paranoia that my credit card would be defrauded. The only after-taste was bitter, which was a shame as what we did eat was delicious.

We did much better the following evening. We found a place specialising in Khorovats. An Armenian folk band fronted by a middle-aged crooner was accompanied by a younger chorus – several of whom looked slightly self-conscious performing in national costume. A lively crowd of Armenian Americans invited us to dance with them. Apparently folk dances tend to resemble the daily rituals and tasks of the natives. On this basis, Armenians traditionally spend a lot of time fluttering their hands flirtatiously while running around in circles. Our willingness and mastery of the basics caused our stock to rise exponentially. 

Stairways to heaven and hell

The Yerevan cascade is giant limestone staircase leading to views of the city with not-so-distant Mount Ararat etched across the skyline. Within its precincts lie various museums while the pedestrianised avenue below is crammed with the high quality eateries and cafes that define much of the city centre. In desperate bids for Instagram likes, Pretty young girls pouted unnaturally all the way up the photogenic steps with the patient help of less skinny friends.

We spent much of the final day at the genocide memorial and museum. Initially, we visited the Exhibition Centre, which we sombrely photographed before realising our mistake. For political reasons, only around 30 countries have recognised the genocide. The UK and Ireland are among the 150 or so exceptions. The US, currently in a huff with Turkey, signed up a week later. Better late than ever, better than our own unscrupulous regime.

Genocide memorial with Mount Ararat

The exhibition relentlessly detailed the creative systematic methods pursued by the Ottomans to torture, butcher and culturally obliterate the Armenians from the face of their tottering empire. Imagine if the German government – rather than a few twisted cranks – denied the Holocaust. And then venerated Hitler, Himmler, and Goebbels in its grand avenues and school textbooks.

Day 10 - Dilijan

We took a marshutra several hours drive away to Dilijan. Apparently, it was where the artists and writers hung out. We lodged in a modern rustic chalet that the rather striking receptionist assured us was heavily discounted and half the price of the high season. New favourite place.

After checking out a well-rated restaurant on the valley floor for an afternoon beer, we returned for dinner. We shared the dining room with a large Asian coach party who dined from an expansive 20-dish banquet menu. Collectively, they didn’t seem boisterous enough to be Chinese nor sufficiently decorous to qualify as Japanese. I guessed South Korean, Sarah wondered about the Taiwanese. Two of their number ordered Pot Noodles.

The woman who served us on both occasions took affectionate care of us despite her less industrious colleagues talking over her head whenever they needed to justify their managerial importance. I had fish soup and ostrich steak. Along with the house red, all of which sat on my unnecessary lunch-time beers, I was stuffed to burst and genuinely disgusted with my gluttony. Before we left, our waitress insisted on taking us upstairs to show us the resident artwork. Sarah tinkled winningly on a piano. We wanted to take our waitress home where she would be appreciated better.

With the greatest respect to her, we said as much about many of the gentle and loving canines we met. Nonetheless, we accept we have no right to take ownership of either dogs or waitresses however well we feed and walk them. We regretted neither hugging her goodbye nor asking her name.

The weather was just about perfect. Barely a cloud to spoil the views.

Heavenly Light

Before we left Dilijan, we took a taxi to the 12th Century monasteries, Haghartsin and Goshavank. Most of the sites sprinkled across a region that boasts the world’s first Christian countries resemble fortified keeps rather than places of otherworldly rest and contemplation. Ethereal slight streamed through the window slits.

That evening, we took the train back from Yerevan to Tiblisi. Before we left, we visited the statue of Mother Armenia in a park at the top of the city via the cascades. She stood in an eerie fun-fair park largely denuded of custom. Mickey Mouse moped dolefully past. Craggy-faced employees with thousand-mile stares paid us little heed as we photographed the rusting hulks they commandeered. A man with a monkey on a chain failed to win our business.

Back on the train, the upgrade in class was more appreciated by Sarah. My grumpiness won over any sense of privilege due to my not sleeping for the first four or so hours before the customs men and women intruded on our little space. Sarah snoozed like a contented piglette in a blanket.

On arrival, we elected to keep on keeping on towards our prize in the High Caucasus.

Ascent of the Caucasus

In Stepantsminda, we found a guest-house with a view and a friendly hostess. We rejected the first landlady due to her cold manner and the various rules pasted up inside the front door. One gave a police number to call if anyone was sighted smoking an e-cigarette. We said we’d be back in ten minutes. She said: ‘but you haven’t asked me the price yet.’ You can’t price a lack of welcome.

No meals were included at the second, which sent Sarah into a temporary hanic. The Lonely Planet claimed there were no restaurants in town and she envisaged us living off scraps from the fast food joints near the centre of the townlet. But the Lonely Planet was speaking untruths. There were many more restaurants than mealtimes.

Our hostess, Tamari, offered us coffee from the large glittering kitchen at our disposal and later gifted us wine when she spotted us drinking our own. If we had walked in with a pig, she would have happily roasted it for us.

The next morning, we took the direct route to Gergeti Trinity Church. The ascent appeared to require a steep climb up the rocks – safe for the rational able-bodied, but the steepness and the unsighted drop just over the ridge scared me. We had made the mistake of thinking there was only one way up. The church was reputed to have held the cradle of Jesus and the tent of Abraham. It was also said to be the mountain upon which Prometheus daily had his liver ripped out by an eagle sent by Zeus as punishment for gifting mankind fire. (This may account for the surfeit of liver on Georgian menus. He was a titan after all.)

In the church, the usual waxy smell melded with the mumbling supplicants stretching out their hands, while a man with a sheep on a rope hoped to charge us for photos, and the devoted fearfully crossed themselves with superstitious zeal. In this more photogenic of spots, my camera chose not to work. The longer and winding path back proved far more enjoyable than the climb.

Gergeti Trinity Church, Kazbegi

The previous night, we shared our wine with two New Zealanders wending their way home after several years in London. Being antipodean, they are going via Turkey and Georgia. He is a nice lawyer, she researches cures into horrible diseases.

I was almost devoured by a giant bear-dog this morning while seeking sunshine in the back garden. Happily, it was on a chain that almost broke as the beast leapt towards my throat. Tamari was by my side, nervously and fruitlessly trying to coax it tame, while equally prepared to administer the last rites. I wasn’t wearing my glasses so initially thought it was a very large statue. I chose instead to read my book on a small patch of sunlit lawn around the front.

Later, we came across a cow-dog, which was expertly and very firmly guiding a small herd of cows to pastures new. It resembled a mongrel Saint Bernard who had gone over to the other side, or one of the mean older dogs in White Fang. We waited quietly at the side of the road till they had passed.

Crazy drivers are as much a staple in the Caucasus as the parallel world of dogs. The most pointlessly life-threatening was he who drove us up through the high passes to Kazbegi at an average speed of around 20mph faster than felt safe. Sarah and another woman had a word with him during one of the breaks. Sarah used Google Translate to show him something pithy and terse like ‘Please drive more slowly’. He laughed as if it was the strangest thing he’d ever heard.

The driver on the way down was so much more restrained that we found ourselves enjoying the staggering views of the High Caucasus. On the way up, we had imagined becoming part of the view. But back in the outskirts, some incident too minor to understand or explain riled the driver so much that he began to rant and drive in the more usual psychopathic national manner. Happily, his destructive tendencies were reduced in effect by the close city traffic. Obviously, this only incensed him more, but there’s only so much damage a man can do to his passengers when accelerating into small spaces. Some might argue this point, but it’s relative to taking a blind corner at 70mph around a cliff edge.

The prize perhaps belongs to our final long-distance driver who fetched us from Tiblisi to Kutaisi shortly afterwards. Sarah was initially delighted to see his vehicle had working safety belts. Although she was aware that he spent much of the journey phoning his friends, I didn’t alert her to him sending texts, checking emails, and watching videos during the low periods when his friends weren’t picking up. One video described how to construct a barbecue in your garden; the other featured some men pushing a car off the side of a hill. He watched that one twice. I took pictures in case our journey ended up in court. In response to these provocations, Sarah drank wine or beer whenever it was available to buy during the loo breaks – something that seemed to amuse, surprise and disgust the locals.  

She believed we had a good chance to die on the roads of Georgia – a belief she supported by texting her friends from our potential last resting point on the journey up. At the same spectacular viewing point, young enthusiastic women swarmed around us touting hang-gliding excursions from a nearby peak. Our nerves were too frazzled to take them seriously. Perhaps they thought the journey up had hardened us to near-death experiences. Over dinner the previous night, I had described Sarah’s worries about the drivers as ‘a bit melodramatic’. This proved to be a mistake. She was quite firm in her rebuttal.

Caucasian view towards Russia

A few days earlier, we had tipped our one calm and safe long-distance driver the equivalent of 50p on top of a fare costing no more than a couple of quid. He was completely non-plussed before almost dissolving into tears when he realised we were neither mistaken in our intentions nor clinically insane.

Otherwise, our return to Kutaisi completed a gentle symmetry for our trip. We dined at the restaurant of a thousand dogs, met a French couple who thought Brexit was a splendid idea, and a well-travelled Hamburgian who charmed us as we worked through the gears of the food and wine one last time. That night in our pleasant, friendly family-run hotel, I found myself unable to read beyond a paragraph of my book. My weary but contented body finally gave in to the accumulated exhaustion.  

The Big Easy

The train station was not placed in a salubrious part of town.

On the way back to Louise’s home, we drove beneath the gaunt concrete arteries of the overpasses that directed the hurtling metal-cased passage of humanity over our heads. Beneath them, we passed straggles of mainly black homeless men whose numbers Louise said had been growing in the years since Hurricane Katrina. Tents were pitched incongruously beneath the great granite arches and between the roads used by people with homes to go to. The tent dwellers and their location were unlikely to feature in the promotional literature. Louise said the tents were an upgrade recently supplied by the authorities. Elsewhere in the city, large projects had been steam-rolled after Katrina. Many were now part of mixed housing areas that lay more easily on the eye – concrete blocks giving way to smaller wooden buildings that gave a greater sense of an individual home. The results of this policy were also mixed. Now the crime once concentrated within these no-go areas was dissipated more randomly about the city. New Orleans has always had a murder rate that is high in even this most murderous of nations. But without these favelas of the inner city, it now felt that a random walk about town at sundown was a less clear The invitation to disaster.

Louise lived on the far side of the Mississippi in Algiers. I had once crossed it for half an hour on the ferry that whisks you across the river for a couple of dollars. I remember nothing of what I saw. My base for my stay, it gave me a view of the Nawlings skyline and some safe distance between us and those merely passing through. Although the Amtrak schedule has ruined the evening with Louise and Andrea, we had time for several late-night drinks at a local place. It was big, roomy and easy to order. The liquor measures were as generous and loosely poured as I recalled and a band of ten or so was building up to a messy finale as we caught up in the cool of a late night Southern spring. Unsurprisingly, the amiable middle-aged man that took a seat next to us was a musician who had contributed the trombone a few minutes earlier. 

The next evening, some old friends, Michael and Elizabeth, were hosting a dinner party for the latter’s birthday. Although I only knew Louise and my hosts, the company and fine fare broke down the barriers. One former social worker asked me whether we were laughing about Donald Trump in England. I suggested we should have alternated him with Brexit to stretch out the international joke. In an evening of fantastic gastronomic excess, Michael served us around half a dozen luxurious courses that involved home-made pates, near liquefied cheeses; oyster tartlettes; lamb chops, caramelised vegetables; and lobster bisque along with a salad that went far beyond the decorational. I left a half a glass of fine bourbon and a brandy along with a half-smoked cigar. I wasn’t being rude; I could just take no more. They looked genuinely disappointed when we were the last to leave some time after 3am. 

Louise is in a similar line of work to me though she also had a burgeoning practice as an equine therapist. I had once laughed at the idea, but its alleged effectiveness only highlights my past ignorance. She was also a specialist in EMDR – an equally successful, if hard to explain, treatment for victims of trauma. The veterans of the nation provide a steady flow of damaged humans to her waiting room. I took over her treatment room on a basement floor into which I could fit my over-priced London flat. Occupying another corner was Dan, her affable recent ex-boyfriend with whom she still got on very well. Likewise, her slightly less recent ex-husband, a world-class clarinetist with whom she now shares ebullient 10-year-old twins. Not all therapists hide their own personal dysfunction behind an impenetrable gaze.    

After 28 years, my week in New Orleans was experienced with unusual clarity and energy. The 10 months I had once spent there was usually complicated by the heavy invisible blanket of humidity endemic to this once swampy outpost. March is apparently the ambivalent month for sunshine and temperature. For my stay, it sided conservatively with winter rather than the sweltering summer to come. The fug of a hangover was also generally lacking as I strode the old streets and many more beyond my old boundaries within the French Quarter.

Death Throes of the Confederacy

I was the tourist I had not previously been. In the city’s new and spectacular national war museum, I stumbled upon a corner that rivalled the central hall of the British Imperial War Museum with its collection of hanging warplanes. I wandered it for half a day without feeling the rest of the Allies had been written out of history. Nearby was the considerably more compact Confederate civil war museum. The use of the ‘C’ word is perhaps unusual. All around the US, Confederate statues had been removed over the last couple of years – General Lee had only recently been toppled from his pedestal in New Orleans.

This flurry of revisionism seemed to represent the final nail in the coffin of the South – washing away the remnants of the world romanticised in Gone with the Wind. It was odd to witness the last of a whole culture officially expunged from the records. Before coming, I had worked my way through the novel’s 900 pages over several months – the final assignment involved watching the equally epic film on the night before my departure. The book was well written and researched, but felt heavy by at least 300 pages with the author seemingly keen to make sure we got her points by making them repeatedly from every angle. I was initially attracted by the apparent amorality of its romantic leads who contrasted with the stuffy hypocrisy and naïve fervour demonstrated by the rest of the regular southern cast – if only because they saw the big picture seemingly invisible to those around them.

But the more I read, the more I realised how the indifference of Scarlett and Rhett to the cause may have been a convenient literary device to better illustrate the doings of the much-maligned Scalawags and Carpetbaggers who profited from the fall of the Confederacy. While sensitive to the naivety of applying contemporary hindsight harshly to the beliefs of times past, I was surprised how Google yielded little criticism of the views expressed in its pages. The book didn’t stint on the racist abuse and attitudes that no doubt exists when your economy relies on slave labour. For this, perhaps, it should be applauded for its historical honesty. But it was conspicuous for its wilful ignoring of the daily plight of the slaves beyond the patronising portraits of the eye-rolling mammas and simple giants who lived amongst the white folk. Of the field hands, there was nothing, bar the suggestion that freedom made such people ‘uppity’ and dangerous. Most of the ‘honourable gentleman’ who graced its pages joined the Ku Klux Klan.

On my flight home, I watched Spike Lee’s Blackkklansman in which one of the main antagonists was the Grand Wizard, holocaust denier, and white supremacist, David Duke. Duke was a prominent voice of hate when I lived in Louisiana and Google suggests he continues to spread his hateful message on his radio show like a latter-day Oswald Mosley. It was perhaps admirable that Dukes was portrayed as an urbane and smooth individual rather than a cartoon villain. As such, the true banality of evil is more honestly recorded and understood.

A visit to several plantations clarified the picture of the realities of the Old South somewhat. The first showcased the harsh lives of the slaves before the war, and after when its old wealthy economy collapsed during the painful process of reconstruction. Our admission ticket to Oak Avenue bought us a tour around the fine plantation house that concentrated mainly on the lives of its owners. Only in the mocked-up slave houses behind it was a fuller perspective given – particularly from the manacles used to hold the unruliest of the human stock. On one wall was a list valuing the slaves as company assets. As a potential breeder of up to 20 slave children, the price of a young woman was generally very high.

Sound of the City

As before, live music was performed from all corners of the bars and cafes of the quarter. And as before, much of it owed as much to roots in soul and blues as the traditional jazz for which New Orleans is really famous. Most of it, I heard in passing as I wandered past some half-empty establishments that stood alongside similar others with queues half way round the block. Thus, lies the power of a good review on Trip Advisor. On our one big night out, Andrea, Louise, and Sian and I went to see Joe and the Iguanas in the Circle Bar. After 28 years, their on-stage stage banter suggested they still liked each other. Apparently, the band had found success and earned Joe a fancy house and swimming pool before Katrina engulfed it. He said he remembered me, but with no evidence of surprise in his eyes. I think he may have confused me with someone else. Sian, whose family hail from Korea, said she now visited Asia several months a year for work. While keeping the company of Westerners, she was surprised how much she liked the region. We planned a nightcap at an unlikely British pub with an entrance disguised by an old blue policeman’s kiosk. It was already closed despite it being only one in the morning. Instead we barged in on Louise’s neighbours whom she invited home to dance. They were perhaps too polite, or stoned, to say no firmly. I suggested we left their evening to a more sedate denouement. In the morning, Louise agreed.

On my last night, I was treated to dinner at the Palm Court. It was on her mother’s tab, who was herself absent and in hospital after suffering a relatively severe dancing accident. It was another favour I couldn’t return from the eccentric matriarch who had once topped up my pay packet from below the minimum wage. I had worked for her husband George in the warehouse behind the restaurant where he ran his jazz label. George was convinced I was robbing him blind. I know this because I walked into his office several times, while he was whispering his latest suspicions about the grand theft I was probably committing on a daily basis. George was himself blind, which helped neither of our causes. It was ironic because as one friend told me ‘you’re the first person in the warehouse who hasn’t stolen from him.’ If I was going to add thievery to my armoury of acquisition tools, I would want it to be more of a challenge. ‘Like taking CDs from a blind man’ could be a more specialist version of ‘like taking candy from a child’. Still that’s all in the past, as is George, who passed away several years ago.

We ate a platter of spicy Cajun specialties involving shrimps and crawfish to supplement the crocodile po-boy I had bought from the market earlier. I used to largely exist on seafood gumbos and White Russians, but none passed my lips this week, let alone a jambalaya, margarita or jagabomb. How we change. This was perhaps the only time I sat down to music in the week. I was even dedicated a song but was ignorant of the fact so merely looked confused while the lead musician mumbled something while looking directly at me. Unbeknown to me, Andrea had put in a word. She also filmed it and put it on Facebook, before taking me down Frenchman Street while Louise returned home to being a mother.

Andrea was now resettled back in New Orleans where we had dated long ago. Homes in London and Florianopolis had followed before she had returned to her most established home in a life of international wandering. She seems to have shrugged off the serious sentence of Multiple Sclerosis with the alternative medicine of worm injections. The halting of the disease’s progress could not be better illustrated than in half hour she spent energetically dancing with a man in the street. Unlike, Tina Turner or her impromptu partner, she was not dancing for money. I ended up paying him off when she assured him it was what she did for fun. Andrea’s new beau, Troy, ran a nearby Vape shop, and nodded slowly and knowingly when we passed by and she explained her extensive plans for my last evening. ‘Looks like you’ve got a few more stop-offs’ he drawled knowing that my protestations in favour of a quiet drink would likely be ignored.

We visited around 15 bars for an average of two minutes each which perhaps reflects Andrea’s method of decision making. When I explained I was tired and hungover, she took me to a bigger bar with more musicians and bottles. Nonetheless, I experienced a new side to the city amongst the thronging crowds of tourists overflowing the pavements jostling alongside street bands, hustlers, ambulances, and optimistic commuters. It was one of those streets that locals either work in or avoid like the plague. To the holidaying newcomer, it was a hedonistic paradise.

The other band I memorably stumbled upon was in one of the uptown cemeteries that are built above ground to counter the threat of flooding. I arrived in time for a jazz funeral. I kept a reasonably discreet distance but was quite aware that I was just as conspicuous at 20m as I would be kneeling in front of the small cortege that followed the half dozen musicians. Towards the end, one of the mourners strode rather decisively towards me while I prepared to offer an apology for my rude intrusion on their grief. Instead, he beamed at me warmly and slapped me on the back. ‘Great timing, buddy!’ he whooped before leaping back amongst the other bereaved to dance a little more.  

Heading South

I took the Greyhound to Washington where I met my dear old Colombian friend, Keyty. After various picaresque adventures, she had carved out a new life with her now 21-year-old daughter Lluvia, and new husband Brad. Under the watchful eye of the Capitol, she greeted me with typical exuberance, honking her horn as I wandered blindly past her waiting car.

As I got in, my ex Angelica was transported back into my life by car-phone. She was calling Keyty for the first time in years. My discombobulation was nothing to hers when I joined the babble of voices.

I spent three relaxing days in Keyty’s new home in Sterling, Virginia. The visit was topped and tailed with excursions around the buildings of state in the capital, while the main event was Keyty’s birthday celebrations with a dozen of her new American and Latino friends. Amongst them was a Filipino man who was now managing one of the estates of his old ‘boss’ after 24 years of military service. His boss had been vice-president. I wondered what kind of vice-president, and if the political kind, whether I had heard of him. ‘Dick Cheney’, he told me. I had heard of him. We discussed their relationship with careful diplomacy. My new friend was aware and sensitive to his employer’s international reputation. He hadn’t enjoyed the recent film that demonised him.

Otherwise, despite the anxiety dreams provoked by Keyty saying she wanted her birthday to be defined by dancing, the night passed joyfully. I successfully adapted my own personal dancing with the salsa beloved of around half the party. Before I knew it, they were copying my fusion of the two and incorporated the ‘face drop’ I had thrown in when the crowd had parted for my turn to perform a special move. No-one was hurt.

From Washington, I took the Amtrak to Gainesville, Georgia. It was a 12-hour overnighter that skipped my planned visit Salisbury, North Carolina, due to inconvenient timetabling. My plan had been to make my way south to New Orleans by road or rail over 3-4 days – staying at small town layovers that would illustrate the life of the lands between my main destinations.

Gainesville proved a disappointment. The long empty road up the former main street was deserted in the cold early morning walk from the tracks. The few disembarking passengers were vague about where I might find the town centre in the town where they lived. Businesses were sparse beyond a scattering of misplaced seeming Hispanic churches and a few dusty thrift shops. It was too cold to spend long setting up any shots, but the scene looked an ideal candidate for a profile of ghost towns of the old West. Eventually, I found more life, but it was unpleasant modernity that reared up on the major freeway that dominated the landscape. I discovered that its heart was represented by these soul-less polluting roads festooned with fast-food joints and jammed with dangerous hurtling trucks.

Alongside lay plenty of lodgings, none offering much in the way of comfort or cheer. Finally, $75 bought me a dirty room in a budget inn. Within it, I found roaches, and a microwave that sprung into life when I tried the main light switch. A closet door led unexpectedly into a neighbouring room. From within it, a paranoid redneck quickly materialised. ‘Was that you?!’ he demanded. I wondered who he was hiding from. I assured him that for both our sakes, it wouldn’t happen again.

Eventually, I found the town square. The town tourist board had taken enough clever pictures of it to Photoshop some respectability to the outside world, but the reality wouldn’t fool anyone long. Several cute waitresses comprised the totality of the local charm. Most of my time was spent finding Gainesville’s Greyhound office. It was five miles out of town. Reaching it on foot necessitated crossing a high bridge with an ankle-high parapet, descending and ascending a steep bank, and sprinting across several busy freeways. A local policeman almost pulled a gun on me when I approached him for directions with my hands behind my back. Lesson learnt. When I had given up on locating it, I asked at a local garage, where a cheerful Indian man told me that I had found it. He reminded me of Apu from The Simpsons. My reservation was not on the system, but he cheerfully told me to ‘take a chill-pill’ when I stressed my keenness to be on the first bus out of town.

The next morning, I made my way back – by cab – to catch my bus. The young black guy taking me had no idea how much to charge me. He was delighted with a dollar tip. The bus turned up five minutes after we were told it was delayed by at least two hours. Within the hour, we arrived in an insalubrious quarter of Atlanta where homeless folk staggered aimlessly beneath its flyovers within sight of its gleaming modern spires. I changed buses to Tuscaloosa with a few minutes to spare.

The journey to Alabama showcased the scenery of the South. Thick tropical forests wildly strewn about the largely deserted hills and swamps. Birmingham, Alabama had an old grey charm that had yet to be burnished to a modern sheen. A black guy of a similar age to me saw me taking pictures of the old buildings and asked if I was working on some social documentary. He chatted without preamble about the divisions of the nation before wishing me well. Regardless of skin-colour, people seemed to gauge accurately whether you were with or against them. If anything, it was the white folk who treated me with some measure of suspicion. As with those running the beleaguered train service, the mainly black inspectors and drivers that ran the buses did so with a firm paternal hand that brooked no dissent. Against my traditional instincts, I welcomed these touches of authority. It perhaps reflects my doubts that individuals of the West can be trusted to behave nicely in groups.

Tuscaloosa was a happy surprise. The food served at the Greyhound terminal looked as good as any I hoped to find in the South. Town was some miles distant, but I was happy to stroll along the wide straight avenue into a town that I was confident existed at its end. After an hour or so, the street markers counted down into single digits and a pleasant slick city spread about me. I found a hotel that spilled somewhat over my budget, but I luxuriated in the contrast of facilities from where I had just come. The next day, I walked about the historic quarter till my legs ached – marveling at the size and comfort of the properties extending unboundaried in all directions. Starts and Stripes abounded from comfortable porches. Later, I visited an enormous university whose size and population was a town in itself. I found the state natural history museum ensconced within it. It didn’t seem to receive a lot of visitors. The cadet force which drilled in a nearby square was not short of recruits.

Very Slow Train Coming

I should have caught the bus.

The train sounded a more romantic chariot in which to return to the Big Easy. It was scheduled to bring me into town around sundown where I was to be whisked off for dinner at my old haunt The Palm Court Jazz Cafe. Instead, I spent four hours waiting at Tuscaloosa’s windswept station for the 1pm train. When it arrived, it managed to lose another hour despite seemingly travelling at full speed without noticeable delay. Apparently, freight takes priority over human traffic and if you lose the slot your train falls down the pecking order. We received a small apology over the airwaves, but those resigned to using public transport accepted it with the stoicism of Latin Americans. These vehicles seem reserved mainly for those who have lost their license or can’t afford a car. While the minutes of my dream entrance to New Orleans were disappearing, I grumpily elected to get dinner from the moveable feast provided by Amtrak rather than the jazz café on Decatur Street. The chicken breast came with a rather flattering description and complementary high price, along with the company of strangers. This enforced meeting of minds perhaps suits the more extrovert character of the American for all the divisions in its society. I shared the space with an ex-navy engineer, a black teenager from Mississippi, and a cheerful woman of a certain age (about my age) from Florida, whose husband worked for NASA.

The latter said she knew I was a journalist as soon as I sat down. During our dinner slot, she held the conversation together. The teenager was happy to have her educational plans indulged awhile before drifting back to the music on her headphones. Trump seemed a dangerous communal conversation in a packed carriage – my sense of this heightened by the presence of several hefty bearded men across the aisle. Politics was touched upon through the safer ground of far-off Brexit. The NASA bride wanted to know if I thought the Russians were involved. The engineer sounded like a natural Brexiteer when gravely stating the principle of not being dictated to by others. I said I understood that independence from distant rulers was a cornerstone of US democracy. He greeted my diplomacy with an approving nod. It felt well judged. I tentatively suggested that both our countries were facing a backlash from those feeling disenfranchised, but the response of the masses was perhaps not one to improve the lot of many. It was perhaps best that dinner was not sufficiently drawn out for us to thrash these points out more fully. We all left on friendly terms. 

My plan to see the countryside of Georgia, Mississippi, and Louisiana was thwarted by our late departure. Night fell within a few hours. During our meal, small dying towns flashed tantalisingly past our window, but I was too engaged with my fellow diners to become absorbed by daydreams of their past histories. The largely deserted main streets I glimpsed would probably be of little interest to the modern Americans around me, but for me, preserved by indifference, the ghosts of these fleeting ruins were beguiling.

New York, New York

My previous visit to the Big Apple was largely spent in insalubrious bars in the East Village.

This time, I covered more ground in my first afternoon than I had spent in a week 28 years ago. I paced through Manhattan until my aged knees showed the strain of a half century’s wear and tear. In the same bitter cold, I circled Lady Liberty on Freedom Island under whose shadow a hungry seagull snatched my beef-burger from my hand in a gesture of unwelcoming contempt. I was briefly outraged, but knew immediately that this vignette would outlast my hunger.

I passed the downtown financial district through China Town and Little Italy, back through the East Village where my hostess Liane lived, midtown to the Empire State Building, the moneyed splendour of Madison and Fifth Avenues, the museums around the park, and up to down-at-heel Harlem. My limited time didn’t allow for the contrasts of the boroughs beyond. The scale of this crowded island was only truly revealed from the 80-something stories of the Empire State Building – no longer the biggest kid in the class, but still standing with proud dignity like an esteemed patriarch amongst youthful successors.

Liane’s bachelorette pad was an ideal springboard for daily jaunts. While she worked long and hard as an immigration lawyer, she felt guilty about living in the heart of things rather than commuting from more distant boroughs like the masses. One night, she took me to a friend’s gig. The 99-cent pizza we grabbed on the way was a slice of New York life that paid her back for a few minutes of the board and lodging I was saving elsewhere. I briefly met her man-of-the-moment who was perhaps hoping for a more full-time contract of intimacy. He shook my hand before retreating as quickly back down the corridor of apartment from whence he came. He answered my questions through Liane – much as if she was interpreting our Anglo-Saxon dialects. He was off to a gig for which he dressed up in shiny patent leather shoes, shorts, and a dress shirt over which he wore a hoodie. He refused to wear a coat before braving the sub-zero temperatures. He was an accountant by day.    

Overall, the behaviour of the natives was perhaps no different than before, but I was. I now found them more amenable – appreciating what set them apart, and was no longer intimidated. Confrontational conversations were now reinterpreted as communication with a refreshing directness. I warmed to the multiple cultures melding under the banner of New York – much like I feel at home within the melting pot of my London home. Now, I realised it is the homogeneity of a monoculture that oppresses me

The advantages of digital technology helped tame the confusion of unfamiliarity. Google Maps may restrict the extremes of my error-prone sense of direction, but now I studied paper maps with a sense of purpose rather than bewilderment. The logic of the city’s say-it-how-it-is nomenclature guided me with reasonable precision. The avenues and street numbers stated clearly your direction and placement with only the odd exception of a hallowed Madison Avenue or Broadway to make the rule. Only the Metros unwillingness to offer up maps for the uninitiated led to guesswork regarding destinations and routes, but I can’t begrudge the locals some advantage for the arcane knowledge earned by their longevity.   

The Walls of Dubrovnik

The arch-organiser, Sarah, surpassed herself in booking us a cosy studio apartment within the walls of Dubrovnik. I was particularly impressed by this coup as we joined the crush at the spot-lit splendour of the main gate.

Perhaps the overnight visitors were outnumbered by the surfeit of cruise passengers who paced the old city-state like troops of geriatric legionaries. During our first breakfast, tour parties of limping ancients observed me with glassy-eyes in the narrow confines of the city alleyways as I vainly dabbed the egg yolk from my mouth between bites, their shirt-tails close enough to mop up the leftovers.

The mighty walls gave Dubrovnik protection from both real and fictional invaders – neither broached by the Turks or Yugoslavian army, nor the enemies of King’s Landing – depending on what happens in the next series of Game of Thrones. The night before we had sampled fine wines served by one of the nation’s three smiling people, before watching Anthony Joshua defend his heavyweight title on the steep steps of bar while sipping Rakia. It was meant to be an Irish bar, but wasn’t really.

After circumventing the walls of the tightly packed city the next day, we delved into its medieval main streets and warrens of alleyways. For us, a photography museum was the pick of the tourist spots, while the Franciscan monastery and Rector’s Palace were worth the stroll. The photography museum soberly chronicled the War of Independence leading to the blood-letting that broke Yugoslavia up into half a dozen nations. Croatia got the beautiful coastline, but otherwise there was little to smile about. Another small museum had photos showing Dubrovnik under siege. The damage, which to some extent can still be seen around the city walls was not as powerful as the image of its splendid atmospheric streets being eerily deserted. Afterwards, we swam in the turquoise waters beneath the city walls where the ships had burned less than three decades earlier. Summer was making a brave last stand against the growing rains and storms of autumn.  

Our room was positioned high on the slope of the city facing down to the sea. Our landlord was a gentle affable 30-something who ran the business for his unseen ageing parents upstairs. It was a convenient location for eating at Madame Pi-Pi – a humorously named restaurant that needs no translation. It was his one recommendation, and not it transpired just because they were neighbours. Elsewhere, cartels of tourist restaurants charged the same prices for much the same food. The market for repeat custom was limited as most eaters will have set sail before their meals are digested.

Madam Pi-Pi’s mascot was a stone statue squatting outside who gushed water from her lady fountain with lewd abandon. After queuing an hour for a table, we were seated underneath the vines and feasted on a large platter of barbecued meats. Towards the end, we earwigged the progress of a date between a young American woman and a male companion of vaguer international status. While the tone was friendly rather than intimate, it spiralled when he suggested that Donald Trump was a breath of fresh air to the world stage. Two hours of tightly bounded conversation were wasted in a moment of careless honesty. We tried to catch her eye to empathise, but she was already heading for the exit.   

The Road to Split

The bus followed the coastal road for 150km. The villages of the mainland looked neglected but still largely inhabited. The nearby islands perhaps represented a more idyllic setting for tourists and those seeking greater separation from the state. This left hundreds of deserted coves for locals to appreciate the low-rent paradise on their doorstep. Here the incoming dollars missed the mark along with the national business of renting out apartments to foreigners. Briefly, we passed through a slither of seaside Bosnia and Herzegovina. The brutalist Soviet-era hotels that remained perhaps channelled a large proportion of natives seeking summer sun now that Croatia owned what they had once shared.  

Split resembled a Cote d’Azur town fallen out of fashion. The tourists flocked to the sturdy open museum of Diocletian’s Palace in a pleasant fusion of old and new. The Roman ruins represented another previous owner of a nation that took a long time to establish its independence on the Dalmatian coast. Sarah posed with two Roman legionaries – one of whom expected to go further as an IT consultant. We climbed a precipitous tower in which she gamely impersonated a gargoyle, while other good snapshots were neglected due to my acrophobia being brought on by the yawning open spaces between us and the hard cobblestones below.

We hiked past the gin palaces of the harbour towards the cape for sunset from where we could look down on the mountain-framed city. The boats shrunk in size and luxury the further we went, but their vast numbers and a glance at a map clarified how living just off the coast was more natural than living inland out of its sight.

At some stage, we agreed that it was unnatural for us to spend every minute together, and Sarah visited the market while I clambered onto some rocks several miles from the centre to sketch the boats. Secluded behind a wall, I was surprised by a middle-aged man with a snorkel and a bucket who set off past me to check his fishing nets or lobster pots. I looked at him for a full minute to catch his eye, but he was more interested in crustaceans, and waded off to do his thing.

In the evening, we found an after-dinner bar that we recognised as our local in a parallel universe. Strangers were laughing and chatting each other up. It was packed and lively and our second smiling Croatian served us up a selection of Rakia for what she guessed suited our respective tastes. Such suggestions were usually made on gender lines. Several times, Sarah’s greater knowledge of wine led to her being elected as chief taster. The break from the traditional stereotype was greeted inscrutably.

On our second night, I made a connection with a waiter after pointing out that Unchained Melody had just played for the seventh consecutive time. After changing the CD, he returned and stated bluntly: ‘I like you!’ without breaking his stony, matter-of-fact persona. He returned with two glasses and poured us a complimentary drink. Tipping is not expected in Croatia unless something extraordinary happens. We tipped both the smiling waitress and our waiter for the evening, but didn’t get to see their response.     

Island Life

‘No Mosquitos! No Criminals!’

Such were the selling points of Viz according to our landlady Mala along with the home-made wine she was fermenting downstairs. She was keen to share a glass whenever our paths crossed – a habit first introduced with the bottle of schnapps she presented to us along with the key to our compact and bijou studio. Sarah was more attuned to random drinking from her time in the French countryside and generally stepped up when it might appear rude not to. Mala had first propositioned us on the quayside of the little harbour of Viz Town. She tidied our apartment when we were out by climbing through a portal from the house next door that exited next to our toilet. The unusual lyrics of the song ‘She came in through the bathroom window’ would sound quite sensible to her.

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While our incongruously large ferry was docking, we knew we had found our Adriatic island paradise beyond the coastal nation’s major towns. Eating well, and bathing and reading on a quiet stone beach would satisfy our sparse demands for our precious few days before the return home.

Our possession of this space was enhanced by the lack of tourists in the dwindling days of the on-season, but also due to its long seclusion from the rump of Yugoslavia when largely used as a military base. The most outlying of the islands, Viz was still relatively deserted compared to most closer to the mainland, though a rather harmless looking yacht moored up on the periphery of the harbour threatened to change all this. I thought Mama Mia 2 was an odd choice of name for a boat until we were told the latest film in the Abba sing-along franchise was recently shot here. Much as the original film caused its Greek island setting to be swamped with tourists, the serenity of Viz may soon end in the wake of those seeking to make a reality of the make-believe.

Of less interest to modern-day tourists is the island’s historical role in various major wars. During the Napoleonic wars, the British navy waged a successful battle against the French within sight of the island. We visited the old British fort on a summit close to the harbour, which now caters for weddings and parties. From here too, a famous naval battle lasting several days between the Austrian and Italian navies could be observed at a safe distance . The latter eventually triumphed in a foggy confusion. Its iron-clad vessels – symbols of a new era of warship – outmatched the ship-of-the-lines of its adversaries. The local citizens were not entirely neutral – these two countries were fighting over the territory of a nation yet to emerge in the pecking order of European powers.

In World War II, Viz was the only Yugoslavian island not to be taken by the Nazis, and was the base for the later leader of the nation – Marshall Tito. We later elected not to take a hike to his empty cave on a cycle ride to the other side of the island – deciding its 500 steps were an unnecessary addition to our undulating 60km journey. In this we were supported by the young woman at the hire shop who clearly saw it as a pointless footslog. Her colleague begged to differ. ‘It is a historical monument!’ Although the puppet government of Croatia supported the Nazis, Tito’s guerrillas did a better job at fighting them than Serbia, which had officially sided with the allies. Churchill and Tito, the aristocrat politician and the communist dictator, forged an unlikely friendship that lasted beyond the war. Tito’s distance from the communism of Stalin perhaps made Yugoslavia an acceptable chink in what Churchill first described as the countries of the Iron Curtain.

On a long afternoon walk, I stumbled across a British naval cemetery on the outermost flank of the harbour. The dates on the lonely tombstones were grouped in two eras – the early 1800s and the mid 1900s. While there, I sketched a deserted bay from the rocks – the only signs of habitation being the deserted stone buildings that lined the quiet coastal pathway. Its pleasant isolation was protected by a steep boulder-strewn slope, down which I later fell backwards onto my head. My middle-aged body held up fine bar a few bruises.

We also took the ‘top secret’ military tour – the closest thing to a tourist activity on the island. We visited the fort, some Roman ruins, an old network of bunkers, and a concealed submarine base – the unpolluted blue waters of the latter was now a swimming pool for squadrons of sprats. Its image now serves as a screen saver on Sarah’s computer.

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Our unusually affable guide, Nicolau, detailed the island’s history and its many conquerors over the last two millennia. He was most sombre when discussing the recent civil war during which he was a student in Split. He joked darkly about the importance of choosing digs not facing the mortars of the besieging Serbs. His friends still ribbed him for not actively participating in the bloody conflict. Nicolau said that while history is usually written by the victors, in this war ‘there were no winners.’ It didn’t seem like an event in which many made a positive contribution.    

A Time for Feasts

We continued to wine and dine well – it seems almost impossible to do otherwise in Croatia.

Sarah was inevitably drawn to the produce of the local vineyards but was unable to persuade me to officially tour about the fruit on the vine. Nonetheless, the cheap and cheerful tactic of simply ordering the house wine needed no revising. One night, we booked dinner in a restaurant far enough up in the hills for the owners to employ a driver to deliver its customers. Our large, bearded and genial host resembled a caveman dilettante and was meticulous in explaining a 6-hour cooking process that used clay pots over hot coals.

The dozen or so diners were spread about the terrace outside, but the tranquil mood was upset somewhat when a young American turned up without a confirmed reservation. Only a few days earlier, our own late cancellation by phone was almost refused minutes before our clay pots were lowered onto the embers. We empathised with this reverse horror and were tempted to offer him some of the greasy hunks of succulent lamb and potatoes we were unable to finish. Others did the same, but he politely refused and made do with an ad hoc plate of vegetables. I considered asking the management to place a sheet over his head to assuage our guilt over our own public gluttony. 

On another night, we ordered a seafood platter that included 300 grams of langoustines and half a kilo of calamari. It later infiltrated my dreams. Employed at some freelance editing job I didn’t understand – a common theme based loosely on past experiences – I was also trying to create a fish stew despite my fear that the ingredients had been festering malevolently in the fridge for three weeks. Thankfully, this dark twist on my daily life did not spill back to pollute my real-life stomach. While I tossed and turned over this testing hybrid of editorial and culinary issues, a massive thunderstorm raged outside. Sarah, like the madwoman in the attic, presided over it from the window of our temporary home.

Our last day involved an untypical and sustained blast of exercise. We wanted to visit Koniza – the other town on the far side of the island – a rival that our guidebook claimed had a more bohemian slant. I’m not sure if they had to ship them in or whether this rather underpopulated corner produced a surfeit of such folk. To arrive, we propelled our hire bikes some 14km over first steep coastal hills to a less undulating plateau that climbed slowly up for too long before cruising sharply down into the idyllic harbour town at its foot.

The seafront was packed with restaurants and ice-cream parlours and a more semi-permanent breed of tourist. I perceived an understated smugness in our fellow travellers. Perhaps they were sworn to silence to better preserve this quiet Adriatic jewel. Its close atmospheric lanes felt like ideal places to disappear to for criminals, novelists and romantics seeking to shut out the external world. One bar was slowly working its way through the entire works of Pink Floyd. On several levels, on can only hope that Mama Mia 3 does not make it past the pitch stage. The waiter who brought us octopus salad and fish stew was radiant with joy and good humour. He was the third, and last, smiling Croat. Relatively speaking, his demeanour might one day land him in a lunatic asylum.

But for us, lunch was the prelude to the mammoth effort of climbing the mountain that enclosed it. For our return, we took the direct route. It took us 90 minutes to ascend 4km from sea-level to an altitude of 500m. At times, I dismounted in despair at our too slow progress towards its summit, while Sarah gamely inched ahead on two slow wheels. After reaching it, we took 20 minutes to cover the remaining six kilometres’ home.   

Ten Days In Greece

 

Mixed omens on arriving in the land of the Olympian Gods. My bag was first off the carousel, but the moment I passed through the airport doors, I dropped my e-cigarette on the pavement and smashed it beyond repair.

I took the airport metro for 10 Euros rather than a 38 Euro taxi. Getting off at Monastiraki, I exited the station and the Acropolis materialised illuminated above me. It reminded me of arriving in Berlin one winter night where my random exit brought me to the foot of the looming Brandenburg Gate redolent with grim history. But this time, the streets were swarming with revellers in the warmth of a pleasant spring evening.

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I found my hotel without problems thanks to some unusually successful interaction with a map. I thus looked very much like I was the new tourist in town and the streets I walked towards Omonia felt like they might be slightly dangerous – if this was a dangerous place. But it wasn’t. In ten days, nowhere suggested any sense of threat. Some streets looked very poor; the city threw up a light litter of homeless, but little sign of the desperate impoverishment I half-expected from their financial crash. Perhaps the warm spring night helped – even the one-legged man on my street corner seemed reasonably cheerful and secure soliciting coppers from his roadside post.

The value of understanding the Greek alphabet occurred to me while looking at near indecipherable street signs. Also, how some maps give the streets completely different names.
I had the first of my half-dozen gyros dinners. It became my default stomach-filler when nothing more creative sprung to mind. Afterwards I wandered up and down the old Agora – the ancient market place where Socrates once asked too many questions. Around the fringes of the nearby city squares hung small knots of young African men and the fug of marijuana. They appeared friendly, but set apart from mainstream Athenian life.

Temples on Top

I was pleasantly surprised not to be charged to visit the Acropolis. None of the usual hidden charges – the literature suggested I needed some form of ticket. Only two temples of note remain. The Parthenon is in something like its fifth version. I was reminded how the Ottomans accidently blew one of them up four centuries ago as they thought it was a good place to store explosives. Bloody philistines. 

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I chose to dine in Kolonaki. The small backstreets soon proved beyond the ken of Google Maps, my map, and me. I walked through a lively student area and eventually settled down outside a pleasant little restaurant in a cobbled street on a gentle hill. The waiter looked crestfallen when I turned down his huge platter of mezze with barely a glance, and plumped for a rather predictable Moussaka. Happily, it was magnificent and the Greek house wines were quite palatable.

After a long search, I found out where I was on the map. I was in a place called Exarcheia. It was North-East of my hotel rather than the South-West I had planned. Ironically, it was nicer than Kolonaki despite what people say. Kolonaki, on my one brief visit, simply looked plush and full of luxury shops. In Kolonaki the following night, I chose the wrong restaurant by making the mistake – not for the first time – of confusing a welcoming smile from a waiter as a sign the restaurant was serving something I wanted to eat. I chose a souvlaki place having forgotten this largely involves more skewered meat. I ate vegetarian. Stupid on all fronts.

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The Lost Marbles

The pretty receptionist was young enough to be a younger friend’s daughter, but her apparent enthusiasm for my cause still made me feel around 30. I commented on her brilliant English. In a Bristolian accent, she told me her father was English. Her colleague was equally helpful, which firmed up my false sense of youthfulness.

I went for a walk in the national park where for reasons unknown I felt close to fainting. I drank lots of water and one of the popular slushy drinks that are no doubt required to deal with the full glare of an Athenian summer. I walked past orange trees and stumbled across a small pond containing several hundred turtles. I visited the giant columns of the Temple of Zeus, Hadrian’s rather modest arch, and the impressive ancient Olympic stadium where the marathon of the first modern games ended.

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I later visited the Acropolis museum where there’s clearly plenty of room to slot in the Elgin marbles. My favourite exhibit was a Lego model of the site which combined past, present and imaginary in the characters swarming about it. They included Elgin pilfering the marbles, Elton John singing in one of the old theatres, and Gandalf arriving on a donkey.

Beneath the southern shadow of the Acropolis, I discovered a maze of atmospheric narrow lanes mainly catering for tourists where the charm superseded the commercial. I remembered I was on holiday, and stopped for a beer.

Lots of riot police on the streets as I walked home from dinner in Kolonaki but unclear what they were waiting for. The newspaper said bomb-making kit was found in an anarchist squat. I passed a small bookshop and was surprised to see about 100 faces – seemingly disembodied – staring out at me, or perhaps towards a charismatic author within.

I booked a ferry to Mykonos on my smartphone – a rare foray into fully using the potential of technology. Nobody was going to do it for me. I was dissuaded from going to Santorini by a rather dismissive – and less alluring receptionist – as it was apparently too far, but didn’t like his suggestion that I should settle for one of the islands merely an hour or so away. Mykonos also has the added attraction of the mythical isle of Delos nearby.

 

The Island Odyssey

I took the 1730 ferry from Rafina.

Only one terminal at the end of little quay – not the confusing port I expected. It was a full-size ferry – not the smaller nippier craft I had envisaged. Finding the bus-stop to get there was trickier and involved asking lots of questions. Luckily, I did this before visiting the archaeological museum as most of these out of town buses are spread about vague areas of the city without useful signage to make the process predictable.

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On the boat, I got chatting with a Greek islander. He spoke like a very well-educated upper class Englishman which he attributed to spending some years in London. He waxed lyrical about Greek philosophers when he saw I was reading Plato’s Symposium before bemoaning how little today’s schoolchildren are taught about their wise ancestors. He was more evasive about less abstract matters and I learned nothing personal about him other than a mumbled reference he made to working in finance. He expressed an interest in my careers as a journalist and therapist while expressing doubts about both. He described himself as self-actualised, but only after we parted did I reflect how negative he was about everything. 

I neglected to do any real research on the practicalities of staying in Mykonos.
This proved to be a mistake.

As I disembarked at the new port at around 2230, I rather expected to be in the centre of the action. First impressions suggested I was just out of the action and this was why everyone from the ferry was now stepping into a car. Obviously, I decided to walk. Given the choice between following a sign towards the old port and a place I had never heard of – I chose the latter, which involved walking up a very long hill on the hard shoulder while HGVs trundled past threateningly. Two jolly-sounding English girls walked behind me which gave me the impression I was following an acceptable path to somewhere. They soon disappeared.

At the top of the hill, I found a kebab shop where I ate well and drank a large beer. It was one of those times that a large beer is exactly what you need. I asked the staff about hotels and they spoke amongst each other in what sounded like pessimistic voices. I spoke more Greek than they spoke English. I understood that they thought I was Italian, but didn’t have enough Greek to explain I wasn’t. In a mixture of Italian and Greek, they pointed me in the direction of where some hotels lay.

This proved to be a mistake.

Evidence of hotels did exist, but they were very much closed for the season that – it transpired – began in about a week’s time. Google Maps placed me somewhere in the middle of the Aegean Sea. I continued to walk into what proved to be the largely deserted heartland of the island.

This proved to be a mistake.

I walked around four miles. My two bags helpfully balanced the load. Twinkling lights in the far distance beckoned me onwards like Sirens shining torches to lead me further astray. Each illuminated a sleeping village or the kind of homestead that didn’t welcome visitors at 1.30 in the morning. Several gardens housed large aggressive dogs seeking company.

I began to think about sleeping in a ditch. I even inspected one, but changed my mind. I turned back as it was clear that this was not hotel country. Eventually I settled on a derelict house that I had passed earlier constructed solely of concrete floors and roofs. The walls were not yet an afterthought. I mounted to the second floor of the building on the shaky premise that wild dogs don’t attack people upstairs. This gave me an opportunity to watch the stars and feel like I wasn’t too old to experience adventures. Also, how my adventures usually involve some degree of suffering.

At around 0330, I decided to retrace my steps. It was too romantic to sleep.
When I had returned to the Crossroads of Doom, close to the kebab shop, I elected to take the opposite direction to what I had been advised four hours earlier. After about 10 minutes, the bay enclosing the old port appeared beneath me.

Now that I was in the right place, the fact about it still being the close season became more demonstrably obvious. I spent the next four hours walking up every single street in a very hilly bay of many streets. The lights were on but there was nobody home.  

At one stage, two fishermen discovered me at the seafront writing my diary by torchlight. The elder seemed scared when I asked him in correct Greek whether he spoke English. His strapping young companion was less intimidated and gave me complicated directions to navigate the labyrinth of streets of the old port towards the one open hotel on the island.
 

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Appetites Unbound

Around 7am, I found an open boutique hotel. I didn’t think I would fit in and the nice well-groomed young man apologised for the rooms costing a minimum of 120 Euros. More usefully, he told me the hotel across the road charged half that ‘if I didn’t mind waiting an hour till they opened.’ This didn’t even register as an inconvenience.

While waiting outside, I asked several departing guests if it really was a hotel to discount the possibility if it being a mirage. Eventually, I was let in and I complied fully with their invitation to eat a large breakfast. Sometime later, I was shown into my luxurious quarters within which I lounged expansively for most of the day while planning a fitting dinner.

Later, down in the small, chic and photogenic port, I ate a slow-roast lamb shank. The waiting staff were genuinely charming, which is always nice when you’re travelling alone. But their brandy still cost 30 Euros a shot. I settled for an ouzo. They didn’t love me enough to give me a free one. I thought that was tradition.

Nonetheless, it felt like a triumphant day after its disastrous start. I successfully changed my return ferry to Athens and found another hotel – still way beyond my comfort needs, but costing only 35 Euros. This would allow me to take a day-trip to nearby Delos. The manager, Maria, was charming and offered me a cream cake as it was her birthday. I said I would collect it later as I was off for my supper. She never offered it again despite my persistently hanging around reception without an obvious objective. I later found out my bathtub was a Jacuzzi. I used it every night regardless of my cleaning needs.

I asked Maria’s assistant if breakfast was included. She said ‘No!’ As if I was mad. This balanced out the Jacuzzi bonus.

Eating otherwise followed a good-bad pattern. One afternoon, I lunched at a gyros house. This was to avoid paying the 20 Euros it had cost the previous day for some fried cod and a fruit juice. I paid 17 Euros instead for some vile sausages and two portions of chips. I only asked for one. The waitress was too tired of life to offer me the coffee we had earlier discussed. Eventually she accepted my money when I went to find her.

One evening, I sought out a local restaurant where I had a (still) frozen moussaka. When I pointed this out, the waitress looked mortified, which helped a bit, and was moved to ask someone to finish cooking it. The menu’s most impressive feature was the selection of baguettes – one for each of the 12 Olympians.

On my final morning, I found the baker’s open and feasted on fine pastries and coffee for a sprinkling of change. I had belatedly hit the jackpot. After enjoying these in the pleasant morning sun, I popped back in to tell the friendly staff their wares were kostimo! Kostimo has no meaning. It is a mix of nostimo, which means ‘delicious’, and kalos, which means ‘good’ so would make quite a good word in the right circumstances. They smiled and said goodbye.

Otherwise, my best eating memory was a creation involving honey, cream, pistachios and filo pastry called Galaktoboureko. It's a mouthful in every sense and the kind of dessert that makes you laugh with pleasure - though it's best to swallow first.

The surprisingly readable Symposium follows a discussion about love between a group of prominent Athenians. Socrates gets the best lines and like most ancient Greek thinking the discourse seems strangely modern aside from the odd absence of any mention of women. While the goddess of love is Aphrodite, she is considered a better class of woman for not having a mother.

My favourite line was ‘one could hear a girl playing a flute’. My girlfriend plays the flute. Perhaps if I had a flute-playing boyfriend I could tell the difference. Another quote to remember: ‘it isn’t easy for a man in my condition to sum up your extraordinary character in a smooth and orderly sequence.’ Quite hard to say without slurring when in one’s cups.

I am also reading an abridged version of The Greek Myths by Robert Graves. I was pleased to know that during his Tenth Labour, Heracles wandered down the whole coast of Italy before realising he had taken a wrong turning. I could do that.

On my last day, I took the boat to Delos, once home to the navy of the Greek city states and supposed birthplace of the God Apollo. It was an appropriate setting to celebrate Ancient Greece with its rugged hills, scattered ruins, and seductive blue waters. I climbed up to the shrine of Apollo where I was caught short. For my blasphemy, I lost complete sight of the path I had struggled up and was forced to climb down the rocky sides where I was briefly engaged in a stand-off with a family of goats.

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I was the only tourist to trail around the island museum. The one employee followed me around like a very bad spy as if worried I was going to run off with one of the larger than life marble statues that towered over me. I asked her to show me where the museum was on its model of the very small deserted island. She said she had no idea where we were, before adding: ‘eets my first day’. After I snapped several photographs without my flash, she asked me not to use my flash. Only on a deserted island can you get this kind of personal attention.

The return journey to Athens passed efficiently without incident. A bus from Rafina whisked me back to the city centre without a moment’s delay and a room in my allegedly full hotel materialised for my convenience.

Consulting the Oracle

 

With time running out, I headed off to Delphi the next morning.

Thankfully, I left early for the hidden bus-station, which I walked past before realising that the overgrown pavement I was following alongside a major road suggested I was straying from the path.

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Delphi, situated several hours drive away at the foot of Mount Parnassus, proved to be the best place of all. Thankfully, I elected to stay overnight as I was too late to visit the site of the oracle that afternoon and it would have been a great disappointment not to spend the night somewhere so tranquil and fitting for a consultation with the gods.

The oracle has little to say now but the excited babble of waves of international school children were more garrulous – possibly heightened by the remnants of the hallucinogenic gas that had leaked out and lent the ravings of the original priestesses their ambivalence. I wonder how many cities were won and lost in their translation.

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The temples only now exist in the form of isolated clusters of columns mostly nested sleeping in the grass though the theatre and stadium are sufficiently intact to stir the imagination somewhat. The stunning view down the mountainside to the narrow ribbon of river in the valley floor many hundreds of metres below must have made it an inspiring sight for those arriving after many weeks arduous pilgrimage through the deserted and harsh landscape.  

Hotel and food were faultless – the latter involved a baked feta pie with sesame seeds, marmalade and honey followed by a wild boar and shallot stew that was so much more than ‘a stew’. The owner looked like a young Tony Soprano and was friendly in rather intense way. His girlfriend had just moved to London so he figured he should visit. He had never left Delphi and gave the impression he would be much happier hunting for my wild boar.

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Before I left, I bought a small Grecian urn from a lonely shopkeeper. I felt guilty as she wrapped it up slowly and carefully for my journey home. With each new layer of protection, she seemed to be rueing my decision not to buy any of the more expensive statuettes and vases that I had spent time admiring. I was possibly her only customer that day.

Aside from sporadic swarms of school children, it was a very quiet and peaceful haven of two small streets. As on the islands, it was relatively bereft of youthful inhabitants who had been presumably drawn to the bright lights of Athens.

But I was only passing through so it remains perfect in my memory.