Herm & Sark

Herm & Sark

I had already been to three of the five main Chanel Islands – Jersey, Guernsey and Alderney. Two remained to be visited, the traffic-free islands of Sark and Herm. I chose June for my holiday, just warm enough to enjoy a sea swim. I was thinking about that famous white sand beach on little Herm for my sea swim as Sark’s bays are less suited to taking a dip in the same way as are the coves beneath the cliff walk in Howth. In fact you could imagine Sark as if Howth were an island with the hilltop cut off and without the flat sandy bits.

The trip took quite a lot of planning as it involved getting to Guernsey first and spending a night there. I flew to Southampton with Flybe, and eight hours later onwards to Guernsey. At my time of booking Flybe would not allow me to book the complete trip on their website, so I fell back on Gohop.ie which did allow me to make the booking on one ticket so that I didn’t have to take responsibility for a suitcase in Southampton Airport for eight tedious hours. When I checked-in at Dublin Airport I had a land, being charged €100 for 14kg baggage. They said I had not booked it online. Gohop.ie didn’t bring up a baggage option, so I didn’t know there was an extra charge. I just had to pay up without fuss, and was advised to book my return baggage online, which would cost another €40. I have since sent a letter with payment proof to Gohop and await their response.

My time in Southampton Airport flew by. Booking my return baggage ate some time, as did having a meal, read magazines, and then after the early start I nodded off on the well-padded airport seats. It’s a well-run, customer friendly airport with a favourable staff to passenger ratio and much of their business comes from cruise connections. Best of all, today was the start of a period of beautiful sunny weather which lasted the whole of my eight day trip. The minute I boarded the 30 minute flight to Guernsey I found myself in conversation with one of its very sociable residents. I recalled from previous visits that the islanders are more talkative than the Irish, and indeed a lady who is a customer of my library has a Guernsey father, and she is noted to be among the most verbally active visitor of our clients.

The taxi driver who brought me to my hotel for the night had an Irish father, and he regaled me in stories of the annual family reunion in Galway for his father’s anniversary Mass. A born Guernseyman and true in laid-back chatty manner, he regularly visits the Aran Islands. As we turned into my hotel, La Colinette in St. Peter Port., he pointed my way to the harbour for next morning. I was delighted with my bedroom in this very lovely three star hotel. The tea & coffee facilities contained lots of sweetie goodies, and there was mineral water. My window overlooked a garden and swimming pool and I was sorry I had not longer to utilise this.

Nest morning I walked a very pleasant half a mile downhill to the harbour where I bought a return ticket to the Isle of Herm. Tidal variations are the second highest in this part of the world, and as it was low tide I had to make my way down loads of steps to the boat. I had left my luggage on the pier and was reassured this would appear in my hotel room. There is only one hotel in Herm and here they distribute all luggage to various rooms and self catering cottages as long as there is a label. The catamaran boat was spacious and the journey lasted a mere 25 minutes in calm seas. The Chanel Islands coats are extremely rocky and tidal-prone so we had to land at the Rosaire Steps, a landing-point away from the main harbour. At least I didn’t have to haul my baggage up those many steps, and as I walked through The Arch I was immediately introduced with the luxuriant plantations on the island.  

Shortly I found myself in the delightful leafy White House Hotel garden, bordered by a hilly plantation of majestic architectural plants such as bee-live echiums. Palm trees form a backdrop to the swimming pool and the white hotel building. A pair of pheasants strutted the lawns between sun beds, benches and a swinging chair. Enormous succulents cling to the rocky borders of this piece of paradise. The gardens have won a Britain in Bloom Gold Award. I walked onwards through the hotel lounges where several hearths were alight with blazing fires in spite of the sunny warm weather. Bookcases and cosy sofas lay bare for all the people were outside.

My spacious airy room had no television nor did it have a telephone as was the policy of the hotel. French doors opened onto a short pathway down to the pool, and a bathrobe was supplied for this journey to be made in bathing costume. The invitation into the water on this blissfully perfect day was too much to resist and I trotted a few steps down to the pool and lowered myself into the cool water, my first outdoor swim of the year. It was delightful, and I dried myself on the sun lounger surrounded by those exotic plants. Normally I am not one to spend time lying by a pool, but this was a completely different scene. The ambience was tranquil, with a few people sipping tea or wine at the outdoor tables, and birdsong all around. For the more active a tennis court and croquet lawn are provided.

At dinner time a place had been set for me in the aptly named Conservatory Restaurant and my table had a great view of the glowing sunsets over Guernsey. Most of my fellow diners were from Guernsey, treating themselves to a weekend on their favourite neighbouring island only 25 minutes away by boat. Guernsey folk make even the Irish seem reserved by comparison, and they all involved me in their cross table conversations. It was nice for me to feel so welcome among them, more so than I have done on some organised tours with fellow Irish travellers. The food, as in all the hotels on this holiday, was of high quality and superbly presented. Local herbs, like Sweet Cicely, are used in these restaurants. Instead of using standard garlic the hedgerow variety is used. Many of the ingredients are foraged, and they are not difficult to come by in these islands.

After a great breakfast I ambled out to see this very small island, 1 ½ miles x ½ mile. This sounds tiny, but believes me, it takes a full day to truly see the island, stopping and starting, and totally enjoying the experience. It could be cut shorter on a day visit, but it is so worth staying over and enjoying the full sense of relaxation that no spa could equal. The path around the island stays close to the coast. The northern third of the island is covered by a low hummocky heath fringed by sand dunes. This area is populated with small blue butterflies, whilst the southern plateau is dominated by the larger brown-orange shaded Painted Lady butterfly. The major highlight of Herm is the glorious white Shell Beach on the north east coast and I was tempted into the turquoise water, which felt freezi9ng cold when I first entered. My legs turned red-blue and so painful I had to run in and out many times before I could immerse myself. I told myself I would stay in for a matter of minutes, but half an hour later I was still in the water as I could feel the bright sun warming me through the crystal clear water. It was one of the best swims of my life. I had the sea all to myself, as no one else dared to get in. Afterwards I enjoyed a cup of coffee at the beach cafe.

The coast path climbs up the hill beyond Shell Bay, and I began to enjoy views of the cliffs of Sark beyond. It was so beautiful looking down into the clear blue waters below. Wild leeks provided a spectacular foreground for my photographs of Shell Beach. I followed the cliff path to another magnificent white beach in a cove, walking down the steps to the aptly named Belvoir Bay. I stopped for another coffee and a slice of Guernsey gache (a type of brack pronounced “gosh”) at this second beach cafe, where a Dublin girl was working.

Onwards and upwards, I rejoined the cliff path and met several people from my hotel doing the island circuit in the opposite direction. The wildflowers were a joy to behold, but the path was climbing a bit too high for my liking and was becoming closer to the sheer drop down to the sea. Strange to say for someone who has piloted aircraft, but I really have no head for heights and was finding this walk a little too unnerving. I made the decision to turn back and trek to the village at the centre of the isle. A hen pheasant strutted by as I sat by for a moment on one of the stone seats provided. Bright sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees which shaded the lane. Apart from the pheasant’s croak, not a sound breached the peace and quiet.

The little village is a delightful cluster of stone cottages with a hidden “square” behind the outward facing domiciles. Golden and white Guernsey cows grazed in the fields below. I entered the delightful chapel of St. Tugual which dates from 11thC, but which has been renovated as a place of ecumenical Sunday worship. About 60 people live on the island, mostly workers, but some year round permanent residents, and most live in the village. Alongside the residents’ cottages are those assigned to self-catering holiday-makers, so the tourist lives right among the people living on the island.

A short woodland walk led me back down to the harbour area where the Mermaid Tavern and Ship Inn are located with their lovely al fresco dining and drinking areas. My hotel laid close by with the ancient beehive shaped island gaol stands. Nowadays it is used as a lawnmower hut.

After two nights in Herm Island I took the Trident Ferry back to Guernsey’s St. Peter Port harbour and shortly boarded the ferry for the Isle of Sark, where I would spend the next three nights. The First Mate warned that the sea journey would be rough as a strong wind was competing with a strong tide. I had to remain in my seat in the front of the ship. After we passed again by Herm the sea let loose all its menace and the boat was thrashed by fierce waves, I had taken two travel sickness tablets which barely kept me from throwing up. I couldn’t wait to get to land, but it took 55 minutes to reach the rather unsheltered Sark harbour where the boat was rolling wildly in the harbour as I was helped to shore. I boarded a “bus” which was towed by a tractor up the half mile long hill to the island village. My hotel, the “Aval du Creux”, stood just before the village.

This boutique style hotel is managed by an Irish lady, Niamh McFaddan. The waitress is from Co. Sligo. I was offered coffee before going to my delightful and fairly compact room. I got into the bathrobe and headed straight down to the lovely small well heated outdoor pool. I found myself coming to the rescue of a drowning bee and other insects which had landed into the meniscus of the surface of the water. I used the belt of my robe to bring them to the safety of the pool surrounds, from where I watched them dry and fly off again. Dinner was a fine but expensive affair. The nettle sorbet had been a disaster for chef, so he substituted a blackcurrant one instead. Good food was a daily pleasure on this holiday.

Sark is rather larger than Herm, yet still only three or so by one and a half miles wide. Many young vineyards have been developed, and it is the currently Europe’s newest wine region. Sadly I did not encounter any on my trip. Some bottles have been produced, but not in any quantity. It was a pleasure to be able to stroll through the many small vineyards which are freely accessible to all. My first walk took me south to Little Sark where I crossed the narrow guarded path on the high isthmus called “La Coupee”, the most photographed part of the island. There is a sheer drop down to the sea on one side and a steeply sloping drop down to a beach on the other. I stopped at La Sablonerie tearoom, which is set in lovely gardens, for a bit of refreshment before venturing to the coastal paths which pass a silver mine and lead down to a secret rocky swimming spot called Venus Pool.

On the way back I had to cross La Coupee again, and not far beyond is the little cottage industry of Caragh Chocolates. Some years back I ordered some as a Christmas gift for a friend in England and they went down well. I was able to see the chocolatiers at work and I enjoyed part of a bar with coffee at the picnic tables outside. Lovely quality, with all that Guernsey milk and cream, and very yummy indeed.

Near my Aval de Creux Hotel stands the only village on the island, simply called “The Village”. It lies right in the centre of the island, well away from the coast. There are two banks, a post office with a gold painted post-box, a visitor and exhibition centre, a French boulangerie, two pubs, a couple of cafes, a bicycle hire centre, and a couple of shops. Just by The Village is the pony & trap park, where you can hire equine power to bring you to the various corners of the island, including the five other hotels.

The second evening in Sark, I decided to try an eatery in one of the other hotels. The nearest one is the Dixcart Hotel where Hugo’s Bistro serves a small but tasty selection of food. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood as I traipsed twenty minutes through the forest to reach this place. Fortunately I got back before darkness fell, when I would have had to use the torch supplied on the key ring with the key to the room. I really do not know how anyone would cope in darkness here, it would be a miracle to find one’s way home through the little lanes and paths.

That night a thunderstorm broke out which lasted all night long until six o’clock in the morning. There was a warning on the weather forecast that this could occur in the south-west of England. Fortunately that was the only bit of rain and “weather” that occurred on the holiday and it was cloudless sunshine once again in the morning.

Today I walked the northern half of Sark. As I ventured up a lane I heard a bit of commotion behind some bushes. A chicken was cackling noisily as her owner was giving out to her “You silly girl, you laid no egg this morning. What am I meant to do for breakfast?” These local hens provided the most beautiful bright yellow-yoked and freshest eggs I have ever tasted. I had arrived at the tail end of a Scarecrow Festival, and many such objects were dotted all over the island, including a hilarious “Scare-Cow”. The place was making me giggle all the time.

An honesty box allowed admittance to The Seigneurie walled gardens which lie in front of the private house which is the traditional home of the Seigneur of Sark. There is a dovecote, old telephone box and pond replete with noisy ducks. The walled gardens are magnificent and were blessed with bright warm sunshine on my visit. The floral colours were dazzling, but unknown to me my camera disk was full, so none of the shots have appeared in my collection. A bee-keeper was busy at work minding his charges, who seemed to be in a very healthy and lively condition. I entered a hedged maze, and just about found my way out again. A nice al fresco cafe beckoned for lunch which was owned by French folk who looked exactly like the English speaking islanders with their mousy fuzzy hair. That they share a gene-pool in common is obvious.

I decided to make my way down to Dixcart Bay, reputedly the easiest one to reach on Sark. This involved a trek through the woods past houses which have no other access apart from the very narrow steep tree-rooted path above a stream. A young woman passed me by and asked if I had seen a white labradoodle. I said I had seen one earlier in the day with somebody. She said he had seen galloped off when he heard the distant gunshot of someone shooting pheasant, and asked me if I came across him would I take him by the collar to the cottage at the top of the hill. “He answers to Muttley” I was told. I continued my careful slow walk towards the sea. I had to cross a fairly high bridge across the stream three planks wide and without handrail. Leaving the forest behind I found myself high above the beautiful shingle beach and had to descend quite a few steps down to it. The stream poured over a low cliff onto the sand. Once again the pictures I tried to capture of this idyllic bay failed to be saved to disc, much to my disappointment.

It was an ascending trek back to my hotel. Unfit, I was gasping at the top of the hill. A man standing outside a cottage asked me had I seen his Muttley, and I replied that I was keeping an eye out and would bring him back by the collar if I encountered him. I never did see Muttley and I hope he got home safely. I doubt if he took the ferry back to Guernsey, no self-respecting dog would board that vessel in those choppy seas.

Next morning it was time to return to Guernsey on those choppy seas, and the return journey was only slightly less nauseating than the outward one. I took more than one seasickness tablet and lay out flat, so I survived the journey quite well. Every harbour in the Channel Islands seems to have interminable steps due to the huge tidal range and I had to drag my suitcase up several flights of narrow concrete stairs with dizzying views of the disturbed harbour waters below.

From St. Peter Port I took a taxi the mile and a half up the hill to the four star luxurious Fermain Valley Hotel, which I stayed for the last two nights. The luxurious four star hotel occupies several buildings which lie in terraces through the upper Fermain Valley. My room was in the upper building and it was quite some uphill journey from reception through beautiful gardens. A tray of apples and fudge awaited me, plus a fine decanter of sherry, a hospitality corner with cafetiere and biscuits, and in the closet a bathrobe and slippers. I descended leafy Fermain Lane down to the lovely beach area and relished an enormous slice of home-made chocolate cake with my coffee at the open air beach Fermain Beach Cafe. The only way to reach this place is by foot, reminding me of the traffic-less islands I had just visited.

Next morning I walked the twenty or so minutes downhill to St. Peter Port. The route took me past Victor Hugo’s house, Hauteville, and a staff member at the door asked me would I like to take a tour. I was delighted to say “yes please” and enjoyed every minute of being shown around this most remarkable and sensational of interiors, which was designed by Hugo himself. I saw the beautiful little atrium in the roof where he wrote his books and poems, including Les Miserables. Again, my camera failed me. The house is five stories tall, including the outdoor gazebo on the roof, and the sea and harbour are visible from the upper rooms. There is a lovely garden to explore. It is a piece of Guernsey owned by France and belongs to the Museums of Paris. I was very lucky to have enjoyed the tour of the house as I later learned that some French people could not be accommodated as the later tours were booked out. Further down the hill on Cornet Street I wandered into the quaint Victorian Shop and Parlour, a relic of old maintained by the National Trust. Downstairs was a treasure trove of handmade goods, and I bought one of a basket of individual knitted owls - the one I picked was the most petite and bore an expression of great surprise.

St. Peter Port is a pretty town with picturesque lanes and interesting shops to explore. Jewellers  compete with each other for customers. One was selling everything half price and a queue formed at check-out. I bought a nice zircon and Sark stone necklace for a very reasonable price, and just off the high street I purchased some tax-free perfume you don’t come-by easily in Dublin.

One final place remained to be visited – Castle Cornet, which stands picturesquely on an island guarding the entrance to the harbour of St. Peter Port. It is joined to the south wall by a causeway. I spent several hours exploring the various galleries, museums, mini gardens and battlements. Returning to my hotel at Fermain I took the bus. “Since you’re not local I’ll charge you two pounds instead of one” the driver said dryly. You have to take Guernsey folk with a pinch of salt!

Last morning, as I was checking out for my journey home, I overheard that a guest had taken ill and that one of the hotel staff had been asked to take her to hospital. The driver waited by the desk with the keys to the car. The receptionist said it would be quicker than calling an ambulance, for which the guest would be charged a considerable fee. Her symptom of drooping on one side of her face was suggestive of a stroke and it was considered that time was of the essence. The girl on reception went to the guest’s room to see how things were and she exclaimed on her return “the sick lady’s husband is lazily reading the newspaper in bed, still in pyjamas if you ask, and she’s combing her hair and putting on make-up. I should just have called the damn ambulance!”

My journey home was eventful for the fact that my plane rejected take-off at Southampton. Having flown from Guernsey I had not too long to wait in Southampton airport, but just as we powered up for take-off, the aircraft started moving forward only for the engines to be throttled back. We pulled of the runway and the pilot announced that “An unknown aircraft was on the runway”. I was in the aisle seat up front, but others saw another Flybe had landed on the runway “over” our aircraft. I have read nothing of this incident, and a certain person from a certain aviation source advised me that my pilot probably had entered the runway without clearance. The exact scenario happened with my airline in Plymouth some time before, but that became part of the public records.

Baltic Mini Cruise May 2013

Visby has been on my bucket list since Old God’s Time. Since I was born I have examined maps and saw the big island of Gotland off the coast off Sweden in the middle of the Baltic Sea. Visby is the capital, and I read about it in a book. City of Roses, walled town, hanseatic city, Unesco World Heritage city. I had explored the possibility of flying there with SAS via Stockholm, but the air fare was ridiculous, so I put it on hold. Then, in November 2012 my eyes were drawn to a newspaper supplement – Mini Baltic Cruise, including Visby. It was a bargain, I booked it straight away.

The package from Cruise Escapes included return flights from Dublin to Copenhagen with SAS, transfers to and from cruise terminal, 4 nights full board on the ship MSC Poesia, and a coach tour of Copenhagen on the last day with ample time for lunch. The Itinerary was Copenhagen – Visby – Gdansk – Kiel – Copenhagen. Gdansk was also on my bucket list, but I knew little enough about Kiel and area. I had visited Copenhagen on an Inter-Rail trip with a friend when I was a teenager, and had happy sunny memories of that.

Came early May, I arrived in Copenhagen cruise terminal to Board MSC Poesia, an Italian run vessel. It was a bad start. The Italian ground staff failed to give me a cruise card and I was turned back from the ship. I thought it was odd that all I had been given was a slip of paper, and I queried it and was just stared at. English was a very foreign language to them. Half an hour and no apology later I was given a cruise card to gain admittance to ship, open my cabin, pay my bills etc. I was allocated a cabin different to that stated on my luggage so I waited...got fed up...and retrieved it myself from original cabin location. I was not in good humour, especially as they tried to take photographs of me smiling for profit, and feeling quite stressed. Next moment the safety drill alarm went, just as I was hauling my case into my room. At least they had a proper safety drill; it was a matter of bringing life jacket from cabin to muster location and being shown how to put on. I was in no mood for this necessity, and sweating from the combination of my efforts of traipsing down stairs and my fury.

Fifteen minutes later was time for dinner and I was still feeling grumpy, yet hungry enough. The Indonesian wait staff was superb as were the Madagascan cabin attendants. The food was Italian, and apart from my disdain for cheese, I am having serious doubts about the quality of that nation’s food.  The nosh on my Italian Christmas holiday was hit or miss, and the food aboard this ship was not too much better. In contrast to dinner, breakfasts were good, with plenty of fruit.

The company of my Irish fellow travellers was entertaining. I enjoyed the couples, the singles, the chatty elderly nuns, the mothers and daughters that I encountered. They were charming, funny, glamorous and enjoying themselves. They were also giving out about the overcrowding of the ship, and the stress. Everybody else in Europe saw the bargain too; of course they did. I wasn’t over fond of this medium sized ship, and neither were my co-travellers. One just couldn’t see a corner of it for the people. On another note, the entertainment was wonderful: acrobats extraordinaire were top of the crop.

It may be remembered that that is my second “official” cruise. Last year I took my first one as part of a holiday to China, with the extension of a voyage to Japan and South Korea. The Royal Caribbean ship was better, but that whole cruise was somewhat of a disaster because of the behaviour of fellow travellers on board. I received a voucher of €200 in compensation, which I spent on a lovely trip to Iceland at Easter. The fellow guests on this cruise, though numerous, were a model of behaviour by comparison. It could be said that my first cruise was on board the Hurtigruten Norwegian Coastal Voyage, which was a most enjoyable quiet sea journey in spite of the fact that it was cut short by the failure of the propeller, and that I was fortunate to reach home in time for my fiftieth birthday party!

The morning after the departure from Copenhagen saw us arrive at the port of Visby, off the Swedish island of Gotland. Weather had been poor over all of North Europe in the spring of 2013, and this was no exception. We landed in the lovely port of Visby by tender in a sea mist. I loved the look of the place immediately. A duo of gleaming fast ferries lay in port with the moniker “Destination Gotland” on the sides. Quickly I became familiar with the stone sheep seats that dotted the town in their various designs. The town revealed itself as a delight to the eyes in spite of the gloom overhead. I had just entered the modest Botanical Gardens when a single peal of thunder resounded and the heavens opened. I made for shelter in a nearby friendly cafe which had seats and tables outside by the town wall. I remained in cosy shelter sipping coffee and homemade caramel cake. The electricity went off and on repeatedly, presumably due to the unsettled weather. There was a homely chatty vibe, where folks laughed over being able to pay when the electricity was out. I had not changed to Swedish money, and anyway Scandinavia relies on card payment for the smallest item.

I managed to pay my dues as the rain stepped and I stepped out among the delightful medieval timbered, half timbered and stone buildings around town. I could see many climbing rose plants with their withered rosehips from the previous year and with ease I imagined how glorious this place must look in the height of summer. On my walk I took many photographs, often peering into the fascinations of myriad backyards and laneways. There was something quirky to be seen everywhere. An attractive Bressie lookalike (but shorter in stature) called me into the petite hotel in which he worked, and ushered me out to the rear beer garden where a monastery ruin stood. I suggested I might stay in his hotel some day and he suggested I sleep in the ruin!

I found Visby to be a very friendly town and was delighted to be able to add to the local economy by buying some consumable souvenirs. A delightful shop sold me “Gotland Tea” consisting of a concoction of dried wild flowers from the island, as well as local chocolates for my work colleagues, and local traditional lamb and fish cooking herbs. The sun came out, bringing further delight to my visit. I yearn to return and visit other parts of this substantial island, which is famed for its rock formations, beaches, wildflowers, rune stones, churches and windmills.

Back on board the ship I took pleasure in indulging in a swim in the heated pool, though I managed to get struck in the head by a young boy kicking vigorously as he swam. Suddenly the wind blew and the air turned from being warm to positively chilly. Soon the mist emerged again and the ship fog-horned its way to Gdansk.

More accurately, the ship berthed in Gdynia, a while away from Gdansk by bus. The sky was dreary, but it did not do much to dampen my enthusiasm for Gdansk, another city on my list. My enthusiasm was enhanced when I caught sight of the famous medieval crane on the quayside. I was heartened to see that Poland had gained some wealth since my first visit, to Warsaw, in the mid 2000s. That time I observed that the behaviour of motorists was insane and cars were antiquated. Now motors were up to the modernity of our own in Ireland and humans were able to cross the road within reason.

The city is just beautiful to explore and its iconic medieval crane stood proud on the quays. I adored most especially the lovely old street with lovely tall houses, stone terraces and where the inhabitants would dine out and show to their neighbours just how fine their dining arrangements were. The street is festooned with gargoyles which today spat out the rain which poured from the heavens.

Our next destination, Kiel, promised little in architectural beauty, having been bombed within an inch of its life during the Second World War, and rebuilt to functional modernity since. I chose the optional shore excursion to visit the towns and lakes of Holstein. This proved to be a delight of an excursion, travelling through the leafy hilly countryside to the attractive medieval hillside town of Plon with its castle overlooking the lakes. This area is known as the Switzerland of North Germany, and we boarded an extremely pleasant boat ride through five glassy reed-fringed smooth lakes to the spa town of Bad Malmente, so designated for the pureness of the air quality. During a fascinating glass craft demonstration I had the front seat as Manuel, the glass blower, and a bit of a character, took delight in pretending to drop molten glass on top of me! Within a matter of seconds he artfully shaped blobs of glass into horses, swans and all sorts of objects. Before returning to Kiel we were brought to another very charming town, Eutin. The sun shone brightly lighting up the cherry blossoms in the town square. A maypole added to the gaiety of the scene. It was most enjoyable to experience this rural idyll of northern German countryside and was a nice contrast to the cities we had visited.

Following an early morning arrival in Copenhagen we disembarked and we taken on a complimentary bus tour of the city, and once more the sun shone for us although the air was cold. We stopped by the Little Mermaid, icon of the city. There were not so many tourists crowding her all those years ago when first I visited and it was challenging to get a photograph of the statue without an Asian figure in the picture! I had forgotten how handsome a city this was, and I spent free time exploring the long pedestrian street of Stroget. Cars were few on this Sunday, and bicycles ruled the streets with all varieties of pedal power, some of them with child compartments, some with dogs harnessed into boxes and others with ample cargo trailers. Bicycle lanes are aplenty and even dedicated traffic lights are provided for the benefit of cyclists. But for the visitor, Copenhagen is an expensive city, and not a place to bring your appetite. Our guide said that the excellent socio-political system common to most Scandinavian countries will not be sustainable far into the future. What a pity because the citizens enjoy the best overall standard of living on the globe.

By late afternoon I was winging my way home.

Iceland, March 2013

When I started working in 1979 my first self-financed holiday was to Iceland that Easter; however it was only my second time abroad, my first being a trip to Croatia sponsored by my mother post Leaving Cert after school. On that visit I stayed in the nice Youth Hostel by lovely lake Tjornin in Reykjavik and survived on a box of cornflakes due to the impossible cost of food there. I spent my money on a tour of "The Golden Circle", the classical circuit enjoyed by most people on their visit to Iceland, but I also ventured on an overnight trip to The Westman Islands, where a volcano had erupted only 3 years previously and had affected life in a profound way.
This time I took advantage of a €200 voucher from The Travel Department which was afforded me on account of a China-Japan cruise which went a bit wrong the previous summer. Also it was a solo friendly holiday, making for a nice value holiday for me. My previous visit to Iceland had been at Easter, and this one was too, but at an earlier date. Ireland had been experiencing a woeful March/early April and Iceland was experienced positive warmth by comparison. I sat 2 hours in the aircraft to await de-iceing in Dublin, on an Airpost Europe charter flight. The flight itself was little more than 2 hours, and we landed in pleasant calm weather before boarding a bus bound for The Blue Lagoon geo-thermal spa en route to the hotel in Reykjavik. This wonderful open air pool is a hot open air lake half man-made, half natural. It was created accidentally in 1976 by the operation of a geothermal power plant, and its waters are rich in silica and algae, very good for the skin. Everybody thoroughly enjoyed their swim in the steamy hot milky blue waters.
The Hotel Bjork provided me with a very comfortable bed for the night and I was fortunate to have a view of the sea and the snow capped mountains. The adjacent restaurant "Pots & Pans" served some wonderful bistro style food-on the first evening I a beautifully served cod dish in orange the licorice sauce and I can tell you it is a lot more subtle than it sounds. I found all the food in Iceland was very appetising and none more hearty than the lunchtime lamb stew soup. There is a great cafe scene in Reykjavik with superb coffee and piping hot homemade cakes a feature. The welcome is warm everywhere, and the locals love to find out what you think of everything.
It was announced that the Northern Lights tour would take place this first night of our arrival as there would be little cloud cover. The bus collected us at 9.30pm and we headed out from the city lights to a quiet location by a beautiful church in the countryside. The cold was penetrating as we stood for nearly an hour in the darkness with our guide ready to point out any celestial activity. I felt there was no hope of seeing anything. Then our guide said look up to the right-a faint mist had formed in the sky but I was convinced it was merely a cloud. Suddenly the mist brightened up and wafted across the sky like a curtain being drawn. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. Again we waited, and again it happened, this time brighter, greener. I was excited, thrilled in fact. Several more times the lights came and went, and my everlasting memory is of an inverted arch of short vertical green streaks.
As always there was a complainer in the audience. According to this woman the lights were not bright enough and we had been dragged out in the cold dark night for to see nothing. The same lady complained later again that the whales weren't big enough after a whale watching trip! Back at home, someone asked me if the Icelandic government had allowed buildings to block the view of the lights!!!
The first time I was in Iceland I actually did not get to see Reykjavik city centre, even though I was staying in the youth hostel which was situated close to the heart. I simply did not have the time as I had spent two precious days in the Westman Islands off the south coast. This time I was brought on a walking tour, first visiting the impressive Hallgrímskirkja church, largest in the country and which stands proud as the tallest building in the city. Next door I saw a sculpture park in the garden of the Einar Jonsson Museum with the artist's interesting works on display. A short stroll away is the city's main shopping street with, I kid you not, its Penis Museum, a collection of phalluses from various creatures around Iceland and its coasts. The shops are smart and cool, and like many other things in Iceland, expensive. The city cathedral is a small building on one side of Austurvöllur Square, the focal point of the centre. The modern Town Hall is located on lovely Tjornin Lake, close to a quirky sculpture called the Unknown Diplomat, a figure with a bag over his body with just his trousered legs protruding. I have never been in a quieter city centre than that of brightly colourful Reykjavik, it's almost silent until very late at night.
It is for the wild countryside that one visits Iceland, and I was pleased to go on the Tour of the South Coast, an area that was new to me. We ventured to Vik which is at the southernmost and wettest part of the country. Fortunately it was merely drizzling a bit when we got there, in contrast to the bright sunshine that accompanied us on the rest of the holiday. The guide did not want us to venture onto the famous black beach which is battered by enormous waves, and where he said tourists had met their death merely walking on the sands so powerful is the sea here. A majestic cliff forms a headland with three piercing volcanic sea stacks as neighbours. The tour was shortened by the fact that two people decided at the very last minute to take the trip, and the bus went back to pick them up. It would only happen in Iceland where the batives have patience unmatched by any other Europeans. A couple of stops got cut out, but we did get a peak at the infamous Ejyafjallajökull volcano which is permanently capped by a glacier. A glacier itself provided a stop for us and those of us who wished were able to walk onto the glacier itself, which has retreated immensely since the year 2000, yet more proof of global warming. The guide said that we have come about the best time of the year, where Iceland still looks its unique best with frost burned vegetation and snow on the stark black and rusty coloured mountain tops-in summer, he said, it is too green all over and could almost be anywhere else to the visitor's eye. Winter is not too harsh for its latitude, and they consider themselves a year round holiday destination. The roads are superb and the driving behaviour exemplary. We saw two beautiful waterfalls on this trip, the water falling white from the tops of steep dark escarpments. The prize stop was at the Skogar Folk Museum where the robust 92 year old founder gave us a demonstration of wool spinning and other such crafts. This was a real treasure trove of days gone by and is Iceland's answer to Bunratty Folk Park.
On the final day I repeated the classic Golden Circle Tour, but on this occasion I enjoyed sunny and relatively mild weather with far less snow cover than before.  This trip stops at several points, the first being the National Park of Thingvellir, where the European and American plates meet. It is also the setting of the world's first parliament. A beautiful lake and church and farmhouses lie in the valley with fantastic viewpoints from a volcanic ridge. In 1979 I fell into a deep gulley of snow here and had to be pulled out; no such danger this time. The second stop is at Geysir where there are a group of hot springs. There are fumeroles with steam perpetually rising, holes of boiling water, and the famous geysir, Strokkur, which blasts an enormous spout of water every five minutes or so. Nobody could fail to be impressed by this phenomenon. The third major stop is made at Gullfoss, Iceland's most impressive waterfall. Last time it was frozen over with a grey sky and grey ice waters and grey ice along its banks-it didn't particularly impress me then. This time I saw it in all its magnificence with thundering white falls plunging into dark blue water and golden land either side. The provision of visitor centres is excellent, with places everywhere to enjoy a cup of coffee and use the facilities. Roads are properly surfaced unlike the gravel surfaces of times past. On the way back to the city also pulled in to a field full of the little Icelandic Viking Horses and they came up for a petting.
Some day I might return again to visit the famously mild northern section. Then I would love to visit the north-west fjords, or maybe I'd love to see the oldest and most geologically stable east coast.

SKOGAR FOLK MUSEUM

nat.is/Sofn/eyjafjoll_skogar_folks.htm

The Hotel Bjork, Reykjavik Hotel, Instant Secure Online Reservations

www.bjorkhotelreykjavik.com/

Blue Lagoon Geothermal Spa in Iceland

www.bluelagoon.com/

Elding Whale Watching Reykjavik, Iceland - Eco friendlier tour

www.elding.is/

Hallgrimskirkja Church - Places of Interest - VisitReykjavik

www.visitreykjavik.is/desktopdefault.aspx/

Flying Visit To Donegal

 Flying Visit to Donegal

March 2013

I have visited Donegal many times, as often as not to the less attractive eastern part of this most scenic of Irish counties. It’s a bit of a long drive up from Dublin to the far flung dramatic and rugged coastal areas, and my favourite visits have been by air – landing a mere 45 minutes later right in the midst of an area of immense beauty. Should there be a sufficient break in the cloud the descent is a real treat, beginning over the mountainous area and routing over the western seaboard which is graced with a delightful array of islands, golden beaches and gleaming inlets. The plane touches down on a runway overlooked by the high sand dunes of Carrickfinn’s Blue Flag beach, and it is a mere five minute walk from the terminal building to the emerald waters lapping the white sands. I have watched uniformed air crew gleefully kick through the sand as they take a break from flying duties.

Coming up to the St. Patrick’s weekend I took the morning flight which is currently operated by Loganair, a Scottish airline which has long served the Islands and Highlands of its native country. I insisted on seats 2A or 2C, which are the only ones with decent views from the low wing Saab 340 aircraft. Row 3 has no window at all, and further back all you can see is engine or exhaust fumes. A cup of coffee and biscuit is thrown in with the ticket. The clouds broke as we vectored to intercept the VOR radial at Bloody Foreland for the northerly approach, giving me about 5 minutes worth of coast-spotting.

On arrival I picked up my rather expensive hire car from the only agency in town, Enterprise. The VW Golf auto diesel compensated by being immensely frugal on fuel. I started by finding my way, courtesy of my own satnav, to secret coves I had discovered during my Google Streetview explorations. Fortuitously it was low tide and I was able to walk way out over shiny sands to come across some very special rock formations which I photographed, including one which bore uncanny similarity to the profile of a human face. There were square rocks weathered into perfect blocks, almost laid like nature’s own patio with the sand as grouting. They were pink and gray and carpeted with generous overlays of brown and green seaweeds. This is the craggy area called the Rosses, famed home to the musicians Daniel, Enya and Clannad.

The weather during this spring has been memorable for its unseasonable coldness, its dampness and helpings of snow. I have to confess I was relatively lucky during much of my 4 night stay in the western Gaeltacht of Donegal. There were plenty of bursts of sunlight and swathes of blue sky studded with cloud formations as interesting as the rocks. It didn’t snow, and I was lucky not to be exposed to too much in the way of rain. The landscape benefits from a dazzling quality of light when the sun makes any effort at all to shine.

My first two nights were spent in the homely three star Caislean Oir hotel in Annagry, nearest village to the airport. I was pleased with my stay here, nearly more so than the latter two nights which were spent in the four star An Chuirt Hotel in nearby Gweedore. It’s a bit of a tedious story why I ended up booking into two different places, but I enjoyed the variety nonetheless. An Chuirt had smaller rooms and was not as friendly, but its shining star was the excellent leisure centre with separate adult and children’s pools. I was able to while away a miserable wet St. Patrick’s morning in the hydro pool whilst waiting for the day to improve whereupon I found myself driving as if I were one of the exhibits in the midst of a village parade in Bunbeg.

The roads in most parts of the county are very demanding to the driver and even more so around the coastal areas of the North West. I was glad of having the automatic to negotiate the constant hills and bends. Many of the views were outstanding, but sadly it was sometimes difficult to get a photograph as there were few places to pull in and stop. A good idea is to set out and walk or cycle along the myriad of way-marked trails along pathways and infrequently used roads.

My main aim on this weekend was to achieve a day trip to Ireland’s most remote island, Tory, which is served by a modest but tough little boat from the exposed pier at Machaire Rabhartaigh. This was less than half a half hour drive from my hotel. The sea beyond the pier was looked fairly disturbed as is normal for the Atlantic Ocean. A fuel lorry and vans laden with island essentials such as artists’ canvasses waited at the quay. Tory Island is famous for its primitive artists, a movement which was founded by Englishman Derek Hill. Several of the locals found great occupation in painting scenes from their island life, and have exhibited in galleries beyond their island shores.

The boat rose and sank at high frequency through the Atlantic swell, which in places was covered with foam that gave me the impression someone had thrown in tons of washing up liquid. A couple of travel sickness tablets kept the worst of the nausea at bay, but I was more than pleased at the end of the fifty minute crossing. Bidding “Failte” (welcome) to each passenger at the island harbour was celebrated King of Tory, artist Patsy Dan Rogers. I got speaking with him later outside his house, and this highly articulate and personable man told me he was hoping to have assistance with writing his biography. Like many people in his situation he had missed out on literacy education in his childhood.

The sun shone brightly through my three hour visit to the island, and I walked much of the island enjoying the warm friendly atmosphere where everyone greeted me as I passed by. It is a piece of Ireland from times long past, with most houses being modest dwellings which have seen many harsh winter storms. There is hardly a scrap of decent land here, most of being bare of soil. A blind elderly man passed me by with the assistance of his guide dog. Even he gave me a warm greeting. There is a strong young population here, but alas I heard the young children speaking English among themselves as they played in this island which I believed to be a sturdy outpost of Ireland’s native language. With social media sites like Facebook, I see little hope for the future of Irish as a living language and believe it will be sooner rather than later become merely a hobbyists language.  

Little was open at this early time of year. The hostel, restaurant and hotel were closed, so I had to rely on the kindness of a local who had keys to the hostel so that I could use the toilet in its beautiful ensuite bedroom. I was offered use of the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but graciously declined lest I should need the facilities again.

It was fortunate I had confirmed the time of the return boat; the website had stated 3.30pm, but in fact it departed at 3pm, and indeed five minutes earlier than that. The voyage back was smoother as we were “going with the swell” rather than against it.

The area has many other islands to offer, including the fairly large and lively Aranmore which I visited on a previous occasion. There’s also Gola which has a summer ferry service, and some more sporadic services to other islands about which you can enquire locally.  During my St. Patrick’s weekend I also toured south to Glenties, and the beautiful seaside villages of Naran and Portnoo, which have a magnificent white beach and quaint harbour respectively.

I have reserved much of Donegal for future visits, including Glencolumbkille and the south-west as well as Dunfanaghy and the Rosguil peninsula which look delightful in photographs. It is such a highly indented county that there is always somewhere left unvisited!

Dubai 2012

Dubai 2012

Folk had warned me that I would not like Dubai, that it’s all concrete and no culture. To hell with culture, for one of my holidays I just wanted fun and adventure, a bit of sun and sand and hanging about the sky. To a large degree Dubai is mainly about fun, but there is plenty of culture to be had too. It’s in the centre of the Arab world with Islam and ancient Bedouin villages. There are traditional dhow boats and abra water taxis, old souks and oriental food. They have not lost their culture to the modernism that abounds. The United Arab Emirates appears to me to be a well and wisely run country where there is the one leader, but there is also a system of partial democracy in operated. The Sheik had seen enough of problems in countries around him and was determined to let his people have a say in how the country should be run. He knew that the oil would run out and turned to tourism. I wanted to see it all for myself and have a great deal of fun in the sun as the nights were closing in at home.
I booked the trip myself with the aid of Gohop.ie, which makes it simple to calculate the total cost and co-ordinate the flight and hotel bookings in one step. Most of the travel brochures direct you to the very expensive iconic hotels in Dubai, but you can keep to budget easily with Gohop. I chose the direct flight with Emirates even though it was a little bit more expensive but by no means ott. The choice of hotels was almost too much, and I wanted one within hot weather walking distance of the sea. I had one tab opened with Gohop, another with Tripadvisor to avoid the thumbs down hotels, and the third with Google Maps to determine the location. It took me over an hour to pin down the Marina Byblos, but my provisional flight booking was held open during my search. This is the beauty of Gohop.
The Marina Byblos is a four star hotel about 15 minutes slow walking from the beach and right beside the Marina, which like the whole of Dubai, is a work in progress. I was delighted to be allocated a room overlooking the marina itself, as despite the name many buildings surround the establishment. In spite of the good reviews there were plenty of not so good ones. I must say I was totally delighted with the place and found my bedroom well equipped, spacious and delightfully decorated with aquamarine colours. In finish it was more 5 star than 4 star. There was complimentary water even though the stuff in the tap is perfectly safe, tea and coffee and bath robe and slippers and a convenient washing line which is all too often missing. The TV screen was large and with a good choice of channels and the bed was super comfy. Breakfast was ok rather than great. I couldn’t really take to the veal rashers, but there was enough choice to keep most people reasonably satisfied, and you could partake from 6 am to 11 am every day - that’s what I call choice. There was a rooftop pool, not very big but adequate and not crowded. Most guests are Russian and this cohort are not in the habit of hogging the loungers and they know how to conduct themselves with decorum.. Not that I spent very much time up there, but it was a nice place to have a pre-dinner swim in the dark. There was a good choice of eateries and night places in the hotel. There was a Russian nightclub and restaurant, but I reckoned I might perhaps be out of my depth there, so I gave my business to the Korean eatery and bar, and got some absolutely delightful food and drink for €20 during happy hour. I also visited the English bar which served me the most the most delicious pork roast I have ever enjoyed in a restaurant. The 2 pork cuts were like thin t-bones char grilled and the potatoes were like I have never tasted before so crispy and fluffy were they. This was served with a gigantic Yorkshire pudding, roast root vegetables and a lovely side of chunky apple sauce with clove. Gravy was served in a mini jug. My late Aunt Kay would have approved of this as she hated anything drenched in sauce of any kind!
But I still haven’t mentioned my flight with Emirates, which takes about 7 and a half hours. I am always impatient on flights across, and was much more relaxed on my return which was mainly in daylight. One thing I appreciated very much was the entertainment system, which included a camera view out from the front of the plane as well as true air speed etc. As an ex amateur pilot I enjoyed calculating approximate v1 and rotate speed etc. and viewing the accuracy of the descent of the 777 aircraft on the glide slope into Dubai using the papi lights. We were very slightly too high then got fractionally low, which told me the plane was being landed by hand rather than using the automatic system. Landings are always lovely on the 777. There was a 3 pin plug on the economy seat at your convenience, and incidentally 3 pin Irish and British are what’s used in UAE. The ICE screen seemed better than BA or Air France, and the food was definitely that bit better. Seat space was alas, similar. We passed very close by Baghdad whilst reading the news that a car bomb had just gone off there, and flew right over Basra on way to the Gulf. Wow, I thought, if we had an engine failure now?
There was a long queue at immigration, but things went very smoothly for my transfer to the hotel, which was a 30 minute high speed motorway drive away. I used Orient tours as my individual transfer method through the Isango booking service. The rep from Orient seemed to recognise me immediately and it was simplicity itself all the way to my hotel, and as I had pre-paid there was no chance of being totally ripped off. As a matter of interest taxis in Dubai are affordable and I was never ripped off during my stay.
On my first day I had a lazy late breakfast as I had arrived in at the early hours. I made my way to the beach by the newly constructed “The Walk” promenade, but it was quite frustrating to find that the only access I could find was via the Sheraton Hotel at the cost of €20. This pretty  much doubled at the weekend. Still, it was a most exquisite beach of white sand and clear blue warm water and, as a lone swimmer, I could leave my items quite safely. Whilst I was swimming I noticed small aircraft taking off from a runway which projected into the sea quite nearby, and I wished I could join the passengers which availed of this facility to make a parachute jump. When I say this, I mean I wished I had the choice and courage to do this, because as things stand my eyesight is not sufficient to do this without glasses. Several ladies in Islamic black dress swam in the sea, covered from head to toe. This evening I took a rather exciting jeep trip into the sand dunes of the desert. Two people had warned me about how terrifying this particular ride is, and one lady said she was dreadfully ill and the driver would not stop. I prepared myself for this with a couple of Kwells as I am not the best traveller at the best of times, and that did the trick. The jeep itself was an excellent vehicle with super thick soft seats, with plenty of cushion to grab on to. Just before going off road the convoy of drivers let some air out of the tyres. I knew things were about to commence when we accelerated rapidly towards a huge sand dune, bounced up over the top and half sideways over the other side. This went on relentlessly for about fifteen minutes as I grabbed the thick cushion of the seat for support. Wisely I had not eaten since breakfast. The convoy came to a halt all in a row at the top of the biggest sand dune of them all and we took photos of each other and watched the sun set over the golden desert. Hoods were opened to allow cooling of the engines, before making the final sinking descent towards the camp where we ate a delicious barbecue dinner.
For my second day I had booked my first ever sea plane flight with Seawings, which has its base in the resort of Jebel Ali, some miles down the coast. I took a taxi to get there and just as I was getting out I managed to drop my wallet on the ground. The only id in it was my VHI health insurance card, and folk tracked me down by searching the resort for an “Irish looking female”. There was not a note missing from it. During our briefing all 9 of us, passengers, were advised that one among us should sit up front next to the pilot. With my flying experience I was determined that I should take this seat, and I quietly slipped up to the front of the Cessna Grand Caravan Floatplane. The Australian pilot stepped in after me and asked me what I had flown. He said “well this is just like a big Cessna 172”. Gently and slowly we took to the air and flew up over Palm Jumeirah, Burj al Arab, “The World”, and on by The Creek, distantly parallel to Dubai Airport’s runway where I had a bird’s eye view of the jets taking off. I envied this pilot his plum job, flying a nice single turbo engined aircraft without the worries of carb ice, and with the water to land on in the unlikely case of engine failure. I could see just how relaxed he was as he handed this nice stable aircraft in perfect weather conditions.  We descended ever so gradually over the newly developing Palm Jebel Ali as we made our approach to land back on the water. I was a bit surprised to see wind surfers either side of our landing run, it looked just a bit too close for my liking, but at least we could have easily aborted the landing if needs be. The initial touch down was squishy, but this developed into quite a battering sensation as the water slowed us down. It had been a wonderful flight, a tame experience for an old airhead like myself! In order to get back to my hotel I had to rely on the resort’s luxurious limousine, which cost about the same as a taxi in Dublin.
Next morning was a very early risin‘, as it was the day of my first ever hot air balloon trip. I had set my arm to before 3 am as my pick-up time was 4 am. I was taken in a minibus about 50 miles into the desert. The lady sitting next to me was from Cork, and had taken a break from her work in Saudi Arabia during the holiday time of Eid, and I had a good chat with her. The minibus stopped to pick up our affable German pilot, Mike. We drove at speed through the fog of a temperature inversion. I was more afraid of the proximity of all the vehicles than the imminent balloon ride, though all vehicles displayed hazard warning lights. We arrived to a plain close to a Bedouin village where two balloons were being gradually inflated by the ground team. The second and chief pilot of the outfit, handsome Hungarian Peter, was awaiting us. The light was dim. The pilots applied the burners and the baskets turned upright as the balloons lifted from the ground. We were all urged to climb into the tethered baskets, which was a fair feat in itself, 20 of us in each. Peter took off first in his balloon. Then we were un-tethered and rose from the ground effortlessly. There was absolutely no sensation of ascent, just an appearance of things getting smaller below. It was surreal, like watching a movie screen rather than feeling part of it. That is, except when Peter applied the burner, that was like being set alight, so hot was the sensation. I was very glad to be at the edge of the rectangular basket. My friend from Cork was closer to the burner and hated when it was lit. We ascended to 4000 ft and watched the sun rise. Then we began our slow descent over the glowing desert dunes. Peter was in constant radio contact  with our Mike and warned him about power lines and military areas. Our ride was to last about an hour, we had no control over direction, yet we had to land close to a road in a safe area. That was quite a lot to ask. The winds varied from zero up high to quite strong close to the ground, the opposite of what normally happens in other places. As we got lower we could see the footsteps of gazelles in the sand, and some greenery. Mike said that these were melons, and someone asked if they were edible. “Unless you are a local, you will spend three weeks on the toilet if you do!” he warned. We were asked to practise landing position. You have to face away from the direction in which the basket is travelling, bend the knees and pull hard on the  loop of rope beneath the rim of the basket. I began photographing furiously as we got lower. A pack of camels ran scared. Mike shouted “adopt landing position!”. Then a sharp jerk, followed by the basket tipping backwards as we dragged along the ground. The basket went upright again and came to a halt, but you could feel the balloon trying to tug in the breeze. Myself and the Cork lady were asked to climb out (a very difficult task) before the basket was risen slightly and “walked” into a better position by the ground team. The remainder then disembarked. On the return journey in the minibus Mike had a good chat with us about balloon flying and said that UAE is very strict about aviation safety and that you have to take a separate exam to fly there. He warned us against being tempted to take balloon rides in Turkey as the safety standards are not good, materials used are sub-standard and maintenance poor. This is reflected in the cheap price. He advised that a lot of balloon pilots in Africa turn to drink as there is nothing for them to do after the dawn flight. Balloon flights are not feasible in the heat of the day as thunderstorms occur and the balloon will not rise well in the heat of the ambient air. Balloon pilots do not enjoy the swimming pools and facilities that the tourists do in Africa, but the life style and pay in UAE are very good, and they get back home to their countries of origin in the summer. I arrived back at the hotel at 9.30 am, in time for breakfast!
On day four, I kept to the theme of high places by visiting the tallest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa tower. It was also an opportunity to use the wonderful modern metro train which uses identically designed stations. The Jumeirah Lakes Towers Station was a 10 minute walk from my hotel, and I quickly sussed out how to use the system. I said to myself “well now, the Burj Khalifa is located…yes at Mall of the Emirates, so there I got off and walked in air conditioned comfort into the salubrious shopping centre. I kept looking out for the appropriate signs, only to discover that the Burj Khalifa is situated in the Dubai Mall, a few miles further. For speed I got a taxi, as I had an allotted time slot for the visit. I had to queue for the best part of an hour before reaching the famous fastest lift in the world. I was astonished that there was almost no sensation of ascent in the lift, except for a bit of ear popping. It is engineered to have a gradual acceleration and deceleration, and the only way you can detect the speed is the floor counter display. There’s no time limit at the top, but there is only so much time you actually want to spend up there. However I managed to spend the next six hours wandering around the extensive and amazing Dubai Mall. Apart from enjoying some very tasty food in two of the very many restaurants, I spent not a dirham in the shops. There was so much walking between the outlets that I spent very little time in any one shop, except for the vast bookshop which was about double the size of Penneys in Dundrum. I watched people ice-skating on the Olympic sized rink and looked on as a diver fed the fish in the aquarium. The whole Mall is so vast  that it dwarfs Dundrum, and even Blanchardstown. Everywhere I went I noticed that Islamic ladies were taking photographs of one another in front of iconic landmarks whilst covered from head to toe in black dress.
From one Burj to another. The following day I was booked on a half day tour of the traditional places in old Dubai followed by lunch in the Burj al Arab Hotel, one of the most opulent in the world. This day proved to be a little jinxed from the start. After the pick-up in the minibus we were left waiting in hot sun in a car park for an hour before the main coach arrived to start the tour. Some people began to feel unwell. When the microphone refused to work, the Polish guide said “what is the third bad thing that will happen?..today I feel we arte a little jinxed!” He advised me that I was the only one on the coach who opted for the lunch and I was marginally taken aback at the thoughts of dining alone in this poshest of places. We drove to the interesting Dubai Museum in the old Bastakiya are of town, followed by a cross-creek ride on an old abra boat to the spice and gold souks. I resisted the temptation to purchase anything glittery as I gazed at the largest gold ring in the world. Dubai, it seems, is full of world superlatives! The final stop on the tour was at the Burj al Arab Hotel. I was told to wait on the bus as everybody else went out to take a photo of this iconic building in the shape of a billowing sail. They were not going to be allowed inside, unlike myself who had an appointment for lunch there! The guide called me forth to walk to security with him. It was verified that we had an appointment inside. I accompanied him up the moving stairs past the aquarium and hordes of excited young Chinese visitors taking photos of each other in the lobby. We arrived at the reception of the Al Ilwan Arabian buffet restaurant where I was to enjoy my lunch. The young lady in charge said that she had a booking for four, “not just one”, a phrase she used repeatedly. I felt totally conspicuous and awkward. The guide urged me to take a seat on the mezzanine outside and I watched on for fifteen or more minuets as they argued. He stated that this situation had happened previously, but she would not budge from her position. Eventually I was invited in to dine, apologised to in a fashion, but time had eaten into my the lunch hour. The buffet was on its way to closing. It cost me €6 for a small bottle of Pellegrino fizzy water, but I had expected this. My stomach was in such knots that I couldn’t really appreciate the food and I started to wolf items down such that I quickly became overfull. There was lots of choice and very glitzy décor. I really couldn’t make a proper judgement on the food as I was prejudiced by events. I was offered coffee at a price, but I declined as there just wasn’t time to enjoy it. My “revenge” was to write my opinion on the comment card and on my Tripadvisor report. The manager replied back on the latter that I had not indeed been treated as a valued customer and that the person involved was being sent for retraining. I do hope she wasn’t given the boot, and maybe she was in an impossible situation herself and made a scapegoat; I just don’t know.
My final day was a an nice relaxing trip to the wealthy modern capital of Abu Dhabi. We had a particularly lovely and gentle guide from Sri Lanka. Our first stop was at the magnificent Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque. It was compulsory for all the ladies to dress in traditional black robes inside the bus before proceeding to the Mosque. One of the gentlemen had to wear a white robe as he had shorts slightly above the knee. The ladies might get excited! Our guide, being a Muslim, explained about the Islam phone app which points the direction to Mecca and reminds you to pray at the correct times during the day.  The Mosque, a rather new building, is absolutely astonishing and worth the hassle of the robes and the gauntlet of humourless security guards that greets you as you enter. Our guide did have a sense of humour and shared a laugh as the ladies giggled in their newly donned Islamic dress.  Our next stop in Abu Dhabi was the Sheikh Zayed Centre, a museum with gifts bestowed by foreign countries to the Sheikh, such as the Mercedes Maybach, various animal skins and other dubious goodies. We enjoyed a cup of Arabic coffee. Then it was to the Heritage Village, where I saw a cross camel threaten to bite anyone posing for a picture in front of him, but he never carried out his threat. I petted a lovely small native cow as well as a friendly local Garfield faced grey kitten. There was a small museum, craft buildings and a beautiful white beach with traditional Arab boats lying on the powdery sand. After lunch at the Marina Mall we drove along the beautiful modern Corniche road between the sleek city centre and another white beach before returning to Dubai.
I had so much fun in the sun that I was sorry to be going home the next day, but it was a holiday to remember with hardly a cloud in the sky.

Belgium 2012

Belgium, September 2012
This year my annual leave has been reduced, yet little would you know of that with all my flying about! It will be further reduced next year, thanks to the Croke Park Agreement. With that in mind I was doing a routine check on the computer of the leave I had taken, when I noticed they had counted 3 of my free days, including 2 Sundays as Annual Leave. Thus, I discovered I had 3 more days of leave to take than I had imagined. What to do with them?
I’ve always intended to see Bruges, so why not now? Whilst I was at it I thought I may as well see the cities of Ghent, Antwerp and indeed Brussels. I took a look at the Aer Lingus website and found a reasonable fare direct to Belgium’s capital. Earlier in the year I had liked the Four Points by Sheraton Hotel which I’d stayed in during my visit to Beijing., especially the thick comfy bed. I noticed the Four Points in Brussels was rather cheaper than city centre hotels, so I booked there for 4 nights.
I wasn’t expecting too much from Brussels and my first impressions weren’t too good. The train from the airport to the city centre looked like something Hercules Poirot would have been at home in. It had the appearance of being a film set piece from the 1930s, with very dark green furnishings and a friendly-chappy ticket inspector who greeted his passengers with an upbeat Goedemiddag! Goedemiddag! He reminded me of a cartoon character from Tintin. A station guard blew a whistle to start the train, a real blast from the past. On a more serious note I had nearly fallen with my suitcase into the big gap between the platform and the steps up  into the train. I had taken a lift from Arrivals to the train station, but could not find a lift down to the platform. Likewise in Gare Centrale, the city centre station, I had to drag my suitcase up escalators and indeed many steps. I wondered what wheelchair users would do - take a taxi I guess. Just outside Gare Centrale was evidence of a person having relieved themselves copiously on the pavement. One would think it were a field of cows. Much rubbish blew about too. It was not a great introduction to Brussels.
I couldn’t see a taxi, so I decided to walk the 2 kilometres or so uphill to Ixelles, where my hotel was located. I ran the gauntlet of shouting gangster types from an ethnic minority as I progressed. Things quieted down as I approached my hotel, and indeed a very nice French speaking gentleman offered help when he saw me glance at my map. Once in my hotel I got a lovely welcome from the reception staff and things went uphill from then on.
Next day was Car-Free Sunday and, apart from the double wheeled vehicles, I had the roads all to myself as I explored the city. Families poured into the centre in their droves of bicycles, others skate-boarded or roller-bladed whilst some came in on horseback. In from of the Royal Palace was a festival of farm produced Belgian food, with stands selling all sorts of edibles. Farm animals in small enclosures were petted by children. Merry-go-rounds swirled in action as jazz bands and classical artists played and families spread out their picnic rugs. It was a jolly nice atmosphere and not a single drunk to be seen anywhere throughout the city.  I wandered down to the Grand Place, alight with Mexican music and dancing, with a Scottish Bagpipe band in competition. Such a magnificent sight was this most magnificent of European city squares. Manneken Pis, the peeing statue in the back lanes, sported a yellow and black ogre’s costume for the day. I do not know how anybody located their own bike at the end of the day, so many deep they were, in so many places. The sun blazed in the blue skies above, and I opted to stay outdoors and enjoy this terrific joyful atmosphere. I wandered back uphill to the European quarter to get a real-life perspective on the Berlaymont building, and the EU Parliament building, so oft seen on the TV news. I must have looked approachable as I was asked directions by several people. God only knows how, I must have a fierce frown with the pain of the broken blisters on my heels.
On Monday I took a tour to Antwerp, Belgium’s second city and centre of diamonds. The old city centre was so uncrowned compared to the capital., and was resplendent with beautiful old buildings including the crow-stepped gables typical of Flemish cities.  I enjoyed seeing some fine Rubens paintings in the cathedral, and if more time had allowed I would have loved to have seen his house. It was lunch time and I was a bit peckish, so I enjoyed some freshly fried frites from a chip-shop on a quiet calm square. For a while I could have imagined I was in Jerusalem, so many were the Orthodox Jewish gentlemen who wandered through the streets. I hadn’t realised that Antwerp is a great centre of Judaism. It is also a city of diamonds, and I visited a diamond factory and outlet where one of our group, a Chinese lady, bought a little piece of bling.
On Tuesday I joined a tour to the beautiful cities of Ghent and Bruges. Both cities are graced by canals with boat tours and charming buildings. Ghent has the advantage of having far fewer tourists. Its buildings are larger and more sombre. Bruges is packed with visitors and has more intimate streets lined with petite buildings of pastel colours. It was everything I expected it to be and reminded me somewhat of another Hansa city, Estonia’s capital, Tallinn. Some folk on the tour noted that the air felt more crisp here, and our lovely soft-spoken guide pointed out our proximity to the bracing North Sea coast. I had seen Ghent under grey skies but was fortunate that the sun came out for me in Bruges, where I enjoyed a most lovely boat trip through the canals. Whilst in the main square I  rook the opportunity to visit the Basilica of the Holy Blood where I paid homage to a vial of red liquid which is supposed to be the blood of Christ washed from His body and taken back to Belgium by the Crusaders. As I hadn’t seen any gardens in front of the houses in Brussels, nor elsewhere (although a wander through Google’s Streetview does reveal some) I was relieved to see many beautifully kept gardens surrounding the suburban  bungalows of Bruges. It looked like neighbour was in competition with neighbour as each set each other very high standards in the art of topiary.
On Wednesday I returned to Brussels Airport on a more modern train from Gare Centrale, yet even it had steps down from the passenger compartment with a big gap to the platform. As I joined the check-in desk I noticed Irish MEP Brian Crowley in front of me. Being a wheelchair user I felt like asking him how he feels about the wheelchair-unfriendly train service, but I decided to leave him in peace.