Croatia - some more photos of Zagreb

ZAGREB

The main square Trg bana Jelacica

Jelacica - heartbeat of the city

Zagreb main rail station at end of elegantly planned gardens and buildings

Tomislav Square outside the main station

Zagreb Cathedral on Kaptol - the tallest building in Croatia (108m)

View from the Old Town

View of Cathedral from Old Town

Zagreb OldTown

Zagreb Old Town

Main Square Zagreb Old Town

Main Square Zagreb Old Town

Old Town

Zante

                                                                              Zante

My room at Panorama studios

Panorama Studios

I went to Zante for a week in June 09, staying in St Nicholas, a little port in the north east of the island, at a bed and breakfast advertised in a Daily Telegraph article the previous autumn. I was travelling solo, and spent about 600 euro all inclusive. St Nicholas will provide for most of your holiday needs and has a supermarket and restaurants,  plus a little beach, although the beach 

Panorama Studios

isn’t the best, and you’ll have to travel southwards to the east coast for more substantial beaches, or get the boat to ‘Navagio’ beach. Don’t rely on public transport either, the bus service is decidedly non-regular. I had to get a taxi up the coast the first night after being dumped at the last hotel for airline passengers up the east coast. If you’re in the north east, you stay there for the holiday unless you hire a car.

St Nicholas - just down the road from Panorama

Zante, or Zakynthos, is a small island off the west coast of Greece just south of its larger neighbour, Kefalonia of Captain Corelli’s Mandarin fame. It’s greener than its cousins in the Aegean with the ubiquitous olive trees covering the landscape. It is small enough to do in a day by car to get a good overview of the island, although it would be a whistle-stop tour often on minor and isolated roads.  The main action takes place on the east and south side of the island which have the lion’s share of the settlement, whilst the north and west coasts are far more isolated. If you don’t like being with lots of Brits abroad it’s probably better to avoid the south and find yourself a quieter spot up north as I did, or perhaps somewhere like Keri on the south coast which is very attractive but further away from the crowds. The famous Shipwreck beach, ‘Navagio,’ is worth a visit but is at the northern end of the island and only accessible by boat, so unless you have a private yacht you have to make do with catching a local boat from a nearby port like St Nicholas. As far as beaches generally go, if you are a sun worshipper your best bet is the east and south coasts, from what I saw the west coast is hilly, craggy and indented, although we did find at least one stretch of beach. The eastern and southern parts of the island are relatively flat whilst the northern and western parts are quite hilly so bear that in mind if you are cycling or motoring.

Day out at Shipwreck Beach

Where is my boat back home? I mused as I observed the dwindling souls on the beach. Out of the myriad of boats that had disgorged their sun-worshippers throughout the day, I had managed to miss the one that might have returned me to civilisation, although I hadn’t spotted it! That sinking feeling was not just with the anchors out there in the bay. Shipwreck Beach on Zante is a top ten spot to get marooned, a semi-circle of white limestone cliffs, sentries to a curve of volcanic sand sloping into an impossibly translucent blue sea. Nevertheless, there is only so much swimming, sunbathing and clambering over the ochre and brown tinted rust bucket of a wreck you can do in one day. Not being Spiderman, I couldn’t ascend those cliffs. A pleading call for help to one of the young boatmen from another port soon yielded a telephone call on my behalf; the afternoon was crowned with the sight of the fastest response craft I’d seen that day shooting into sight like a swimmer out of a waterchute, all for my benefit, notwithstanding the fact that when we were nearly home, the engine conked out and we limped into port like Popeye back from an afternoon out with Olive.

Note – boats from St Nicholas will take you up round the northern coast and drop you at the beach for about an hour, then pick you up. I did this at least twice. When they got to know me they offered to drop me off for a longer period, but there was a communication breakdown and thus the story above!



Trip to Kefalonia.

Kefalonia shoreline

A ferry trip to Kefalonia on clunking Angela from the port of St Nicholas (Agios Nikolaos), just down the road from my very cosy bougainvillea strewn, red tiled bed and breakfast (Panorama Studios), yielded a taxi ride to Argostoli; the pretty capital of Kefalonia, sprawls around the substantial harbour surrounded by green mountains. Sharing with a Belgian couple cut the price, but I resisted the offer of a 90 euro whistle-stop tour of the island, and lazed the rest of the afternoon in a delightful cove encased in a half drum of rock, enjoying the kaleidoscope of greens and blues lapping the shoreline.

Kefalonia - south shoreline



Holiday highlight

On my return ferry ride I managed to acquire a further two companions in the shape of an American lady and a South African man, who proved to possess the very thing I had left in Blighty, a driving license. He invited me to join him in exploring Zante for a day; the only thing that cast a blot on the landscape was the truly medieval and agricultural specimen that they hired us for 30 euro, a rude blast from the early nineties. Yet despite its appearance we were able to cruise the lush green hills and valleys of northern Zante, spotting the odd snake skin on the road, and checking out the view of Shipwreck Beach from the top of the cliff.  Carving Zante in two as we cruised across the northern hills, we motored down the main road into Zakynthos, a road with more petrol stations per km than anywhere else on earth. In Zakynthos my friend checked the ferry times and we motored swiftly on. The road took us to Gerakas Beach in the south east, one of the finest on the island, and a turtle sanctuary, then south west to Keri village amidst its sumptuous olive tree and vineyard covered green hills. Via a snug snorkelling spot on the west coast we progressed on to sleepy Exo Chora, hidden in the verdant western hills, site of the oldest olive tree in the world, and stopping off point for Iron Maiden when their bus once broke down! Sit in the centre of the village and enjoy a chilled coffee. This was all capped by a visit to Kambi on the wild rocky west coast to bid the day goodbye with a glorious sunset, before a welcome evening meal back at La Storia in Agios Nikolaos.

View of Shipwreck Beach from the top

The oldest olive tree in the world! (supposedly)

Sun sets over Zante Kambi

Holiday lowpoint: Getting marooned on Shipwreck Beach after being dropped off in the morning by a friendly skipper and assured I would be picked up later. Not seeing the same boat return, the one I was eagerly expecting, virtually the whole fleet of their boats steamed in through the day and I missed them all. As the massed crowds disappeared, late afternoon meant the remaining occupants of the beach could be stuffed into a telephone box. A phone call saved me, and a supercharged dinghy was sent out to save me.

Top tips:

Excellent, clean accommodation with Stephano at Panorama studios, 25 euro/night for large room with twin beds, self catering facilities, ensuite shower and toilet facilities and own balcony with super view.

Ferry to Kefalonia about hour and a quarter trip, seven euro each way leaving at c half nine in morning and returning from Kefalonia at half five to arrive about 7pm. Taxi or hired car needed at other end as no bus service at port.

La Storia restaurant in St Nicholas for a truly Greek eating experience; down salmon and kalamari at a table literally on the beach. Greek night on a Friday with magical views over the harbour

Shipwreck and Blue caves tours with Actipis cruises, 15 euro for the round trip stopping at Shipwreck for about an hour, then the Blue Caves for a swim and an ogle (at the caves!)

NB Prices might need updating, but with Greek crisis they may not be much different!

Holiday rating: 5/5

Western Zante shoreline

Western Zante

Inside of Greek church, Zante

Ceiling of Greek church

Zante - east coast

Trip to Milan. Italy, December 2005.

The bus from the airport Malpensa (5 euros single to city centre) drew into the concourse of Stazione Centrale, Milan as lunch-time approached. Off I jumped, and pretending to know where I was going, wandered round to the front entrance. This was truly the biggest rail terminus I have ever seen. From the outside it looks like an enormous Greek temple. Surely the Milanese wanted to make a very big statement about Italian civic pride when they built this monstrosity. Or was it more a case of the incumbent fascist regime of the time making their point? Dodging the taxis, I walked into the main lobby, littered with biggleteria (ticket) offices, to be faced with two enormous flights of stairs ascending beneath a cavernous ceiling to platform level. I have to deposit my bag so I can go find an auberge for the night, but wandered for a good twenty minutes via several enquiries, including a carabinieri, before finding the elusive left luggage store.

The gentleman behind the counter at the tourist office armed me with a list of local accommodations, and off I went into the district immediately to the east of the station. I had to buy an umbrella for four euros, mind, as a persistent and misty rain had set in that was to last all day. The Alberge Italia on the Via Vitruvio, 33 euros a night, was in my budget but failed to meet minimum desirability requirements! It was certainly warm, but this couldn’t make up for a crummy atmosphere, a dingy room and threadbare décor. I checked out a few other establishments before settling for the Hotel Paradisio, a work in progress (builders on site making lots of noise with drills), but with very nice rooms that would be dead quiet before 8am. 50 euros per night for a double ensuite; As I was staying for 3 nights I got 45 euros per night. The bonus was a situation overlooking an elegant square lined with mature nineteenth century apartments.

The weather turned from rain to snow overnight, and the atmosphere was to remain cold for the rest of the weekend. At no time did I shed my jumper, scarf and warm fleece whilst outside. But this is northern Italy, within sight of the Alps. I woke the next morning to find two or three inches of snow decking the square, made more evocative by the open-air market covering the whole area. As the three inches of white stuff turned into slush from the early morning bargain shoppers I reconnoitred the square looking for some fruit for lunch. This was no problem as almost every other stall was laden with local produce, mountains of healthy looking fruit and vegetables to choose from, revelling in their outdoor refrigerator. Thrown in amongst the fare were picture stalls, sellers of jewellery, watches and every type of household electrical item, butchers with sides of meat hanging invitingly before the punters, and the usual splash of colours from the clothes displays. All the produce had spilled into side streets, so if you managed to resist the delights of the main square, a stall laden avenue would remind you that you still might like to buy something else.

Milan, capital of Lombardy, is all chic North Italian style, economic powerhouse, commercial and fashion centre and the home of those stallions of soccer, AC Milan and Inter Milan. Yet it has a chequered history. It was founded by the Romans in AD 222, and became an important trading centre. In AD 313 the Emperor Constantine declared the edict here in which Christianity was recognised and became the official religion of the Roman Empire.

As with any other big city, the best way to see it is to get a map, and just walk. Aim for the centre, as I did from my lodgings to the north east, and a mile or two takes you to the Piazza Scala, fronted by the Teatro Alla Scala, epicentre of world opera, where you can soak in the costumes and drama of decades of musical excellence at the adjoining museum, the Museo Teatrale Alla Scala. Across the square you hit the tailcoat of the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuel 11, a truly magnificent glass and steel ribbed 1878 arcade that eclipses any equivalent structure in the UK, for we are witnessing true Italian style and design pizazz. Designed in a cross shape, it has a long stretch through to the Piazza del Duomo at its southern end, one of the busiest squares in Europe, and two spurs meeting up under a magnificent translucent roof way up high. Walk through the Galleria, lined with a fabulous bookshop (even in Italian, books have a great allure, you can always look at the ones with the pictures!), exquisite fashion shops, and of course, the ubiquitous McDonalds, and promenade with locals.

Take a walk east from the north edge of the square down the Corso Vittorio Emanuele 11 and you hit the epicentre of the fashion universe; stroll up the Via Montenapoleone, with its spurs to the right, and observe all the famous brand names and their sophisticated boutiques: Armani, Versace, Valentino and Gucci. Just take a fat wallet if you want to make a purchase!

The Piazza del Duomo is home to one of the largest Gothic churches in the world, in fact Europe’s largest Gothic cathedral, the recently cleaned Duomo, a giant many-pronged wedding cake of a church, with countless spires poking up to the heavens from around its rim. The interior is richly decorated in the fashion of large continental catholic churches, with lots of colourful stained glass and ornamentation. Confession boxes act as sentries down both sides of the main aisle. If you fancy a walk on the ramparts, you can climb the steps from an entrance on the outside of the building (salida a piedi!). At the top you can negotiate the topside of the building and take a final staircase to the nape of the roof. Here you can almost! look at the views through 360”. To the north are the Alps, clearly covered with snow. Out to the west you can see the San Siro, a huge grey shape in the distance, looking for all the world like a giant UFO with its enormous superstructure splaying up from ground level.

Milan has a comprehensive network of trams, buses and of course the metro, a bigger system even than that of Rome. One euro will get you into town on the red line; if you want to journey on by bus or tram, the ticket is interchangeable for 75 minutes. The metro station near my hotel even had an Internet café if you want to check your email. You can take a train out of town to somewhere like Lake Como, only an hour away from Stazione Nord, but to be quite honest, there is enough to see in four days by staying in the city.

Take a trip to the Musei del castello Sforzesco, several museums in one in this great old palace hugging the Parco Sempione on the west side of the city centre; there are museums of decorative arts, prehistory, ancient Egypt, furniture, art galleries, and photographic and print archives. A good afternoon can be spent quite easily browsing around the extensive displays, ranging from exhibitions of furniture through the ages, to a substantial array of prehistoric mummies.

Finding somewhere to eat is no problem as you would expect in a cosmopolitan metropolis such as Milan. This is not a gourmet's guide to the city but if you just want to refuel, apart from the ubiquitous McDonalds and Burger Kings, you can frequent the Autogrill Spa – Spizzico fast food chain that pops up literally everywhere in the city. Here you get your pizza, fries, meat balls, and café lattes Italian style; you just have to get used to the method of purchase. First you order what you want, get a ticket, and go to another counter to collect your purchase. It’s a bit confusing when you have to fight your way through a multi franchise outlet with five or six different counters at midday with crowds of Italians all struggling to grab a bite, but you soon pick up the idea.

Open-air markets are a highlight of Milan at this time of year; a huge one threaded through the streets of the centre on the Monday afternoon I left, with some fabulous buys. What a variety of products on display! Lots of black folk were running African art stalls with icons, masks, wooden images of every shade and colour; fantastic paintings displayed all along the quaint alleys and side-streets hugging the centre of the city, often in superb colour. I particularly liked the brazen colours of Milan tram scenes in rain, snow and sun – absolutely wonderful. Christmas appears to be celebrated here just as keenly as anywhere else in Europe; in fact a whole themed area was a jumble of mulled wine, winter fare and jolly stall keepers in aprons trying to sell you the delights of the season.

Strictly for the football officianados, take a trip on the metro out to the San Siro, the Stadio Giuseppe Meazza, that cathedral of soccer that is home to both Inter and AC Milan. It lies west of the city centre within walking distance of the red line (nearest station Lotto, on the Piazza Lotto). A hike along slush covered roads, past the hippodrome, brought me in sight of the monstrosity, a vast concrete and steel behemoth surrounded by an acre of car park and a multi tracked open-air tram terminus. The stadium itself from the outside appears to have ‘feet’ like enormous hydraulic springs that are spaced around the circumference. The concrete superstructure splays out at the top, with giant red steel frames adorning the roof. Originally inaugurated in 1926, it has been renovated in both 1955 and 1990 and has a capacity of 85700, making it one of the largest European stadiums.

Official Name: Stadio Giuseppe Meazza
Inauguration: 19 September 1926
First match: AC Milan-Inter 3-6
Renovations: 1955 & 1990
Capacity: 85,700 seats
VIP seats: 5,200 seats
Press seats: 200 seats
Turnstiles: 51
Pitch dimensions: 105*68m
Floodlights: 3,600 lux
Address: Via Piccolomini 5, 20151 Milan (view map

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scratch-card holiday, Paris

I said goodbye to my new found friends of 3 and a half days on the ‘Paris run’, stepped out of the coach and shook parting hands with the driver and his mate, completely forgetting that my sports bag was in the baggage hold. ‘Do you have a bag?’, asked one of them quizzically, and that saved the day. I left with some relief, knowing that my credibility had been saved and my acquaintances left on board would not be laughing like drains all the way up to Manchester at my forgetfulness.

Ever wondered whether those scratch-card prizes are worth it or just a big con? Well at the cost of about £6 for the telephone call I decided to find out what I’d won, as potential prizes seemed quite attractive. A trip to Paris was duly awarded and I was sent a letter giving me a choice of dates on which to travel. First time round I couldn’t make any of the available times. I wrote and told them and was sent another letter with another set of dates. Thinking this time that I mustn’t string out any decision, I ticked an August 2004 date and waited for further information. Despite some further confusion over dates, not of my making, a confirmed itinerary was finally established.

I was given a time to meet the coach at Dover, and so at midday on August 13^th joined a party consisting of ‘I hadn’t a clue who.’ A big, bright and breezy Belgian girl by the name of Gisella came from the coach to meet me and do the formalities, then I ventured on board to meet my new acquaintances. Like a good boy I looked for my exact seat number despite the fact that the coach was half empty, scrutinising the seats in the back of the vehicle, until a guy with head buried in the newspaper told me not to bother as there was plenty of space. The back of the coach seemed to be dominated by blokes, although overall there was a good mix of men and women, and the odd family. So this was it, off to Paris, with a completely alien group of people, and what’s more, I would be sharing a room with one of them, a man of course, as this was not a ‘discover the opposite sex by sharing a bedroom’ tour. This is one of the holiday catches; if you want a free holiday, you have to share a room with someone. To guarantee a single room, a supplement must be paid, and that is not of course a free holiday. Naturally this entails a risk, as you could find yourself sharing with an axe wielding psychotic madman, a socially inept personage who breaks wind and grinds his teeth throughout the night, as well as snores, or even a fundamentalist right wing Republican from South Dakota. Shock horror! Or you might even end up with someone normal, it’s a risk some are prepared to take.

As it happened, they turned out to be a very pleasant bunch, albeit with one or two characters. Taking the ferry over to Calais was the chance to get to get to know folks a little better, and I sat with 3 of the ‘back of the coach crowd’ to weigh up what we were in for. All were middle aged (like me!), Jack, a plump, friendly and intelligent character who seemed to be continually working on another roll up; Bernard, a retired single man who had been a Conservative counsellor in his home city of Oxford. Then there was Michael, a pony tailed, rather vulnerable looking fellow with a gentle demeanour, who insisted on wearing 3 shirts and a jacket on top, and turned up jeans and 1960s plimsolls down below, every single day of the holiday, regardless of the weather. He must have been wearing his own air-conditioning unit under that lot!

A stop at Calais at a wines and spirits warehouse gave folk the chance to load up with alcohol, then it was onwards to Paris to arrive at the hotel at about 10pm. The odd stop at a bland service station was interspersed with Gisella's’s commentary on the coach about the amazing excursions available to us over the next three days, at extra cost of course. The holiday ceases to be free once you succumb to the temptation of an excursion! I determined to do my own thing as I was a seasoned independent traveller and knew I could have a far better time discovering things for myself rather than being dragged round on and off a bus all day. This seemed to be the policy of most of the back of the bus crowd. Gisella made her way down the coach to take bookings for the excursions, and to return £50 deposits made by us originally. A vague feeling of guilt at not wanting to part with any more money was mixed with an adamant attitude that there was no obligation to do so. I resolved only to buy the excursion to Disney-world as the coach would get me there and back conveniently, and once I was in, I was free to make my own decisions. Meanwhile, the journey was a further opportunity to bond with the others.

In negotiating the Paris suburbs we got lost in the environs of Orly Airport, but this temporary diversion only delayed us by the odd quarter of an hour. We arrived at the hotel, a concrete block adjacent to a main auto route, and waited on the coach while Gisella sorted out the preliminaries. She had done her room allocations, no doubt on the basis of observing the conversations and groupings developing over the journey. So I ended up with Bernard, who’d I had sat right in front of; it had been the natural thing to talk to him to while away the motorway hours.

The next 3 days passed very pleasurably; the first day I hit the city together with Bernard and visited the famous cemetery to the east of the centre. A mate had mentioned this to me just before I left and Bernard was keen to find the tomb of a famous personage of the 19^th century connected with the military whose name I can’t recall. I had the pleasure of helping him find the very tomb in the maze of avenues, walkways and alleys dipping in and out of the graves, then made my goodbyes, did my own tour taking in Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde and the victims of the Paris Commune, and returned by metro to the centre of Paris. Bernard was happy to take my copy of the cemetery map before the end of the week. That’s why I can’t tell you exactly who he was looking for in the cemetery!

My first day also took in the Eiffel Tower, on top of which I found myself at almost Midnight together with half of the grockles in the world out rampaging that August, including Mr and Mrs USA and family who I got into jolly conversation with. This was after queueing in the queue waiting to go down for half an hour when I wanted to go up! Having enjoyed the fantastic velvet carpet vistas from the top, I ventured ground-wards. The lateness of the hour meant a nightmare journey home on the metro, as little did I know they had closed a section of line between me and home. This meant catching a second train, then a bus, to pick up the line again further down route. Then I caught the wrong third train that went to the right at the crucial subterranean junction instead of left. Realising my mistake I immediately alighted at the next station. Shock horror! There was no-one around, and a female French voice over the tannoy spoke into the emptiness. My French is passable but not good enough to interpret her words, but I’m sure she said: ‘That was the last train tonight out of the centre and there are no more trains back into the centre (you silly little Englishman).’ So I was stranded in Paris suburbia without a clue of how to get to the hotel. I wearily climbed the steps from the platform and scrutinised the map on the wall. As I did so a nice young man, obviously an employee, tried to help me find the way. I showed him the hotel brochure that sported a little map. His encouraging demeanour seemed to evaporate as he wrestled with the map, and eventually he was able to give me no more than a vague indication of which way to go. It was like watching a large bright balloon deflate into a pathetic floppy ribbon. I started walking, and spotted a girl sitting at a bus stop. Perhaps she would know the way. I spoke to her but she could not enlighten me; the overall conclusion was there was nothing for it but to get a taxi.

It was a late return, but Bernard had been very gracious; he was long committed to the bosom of the night but had kindly left the light on for my arrival. He was perfectly gracious the next day about my exploits, as befits the English gentleman abroad.

The next day I struck out for Versailles. A group of us caught the bus to Porte d’Italie, then the Metro towards the centre. I split with the others eventually and headed westwards to the Eiffel Tower, where I switched lines for the Versailles train. The new line was obviously a main line headed out of the capital, with trains to match. I was engaged in conversation by a pretty Italian girl who wanted directions; she was heading for Versailles as well, and we boarded the train together. It promised to be a good day, as she was very friendly, and female company around the Palais de Louis would be extremely welcome. Unfortunately, my ticket only covered certain zones, and I had to get off and buy a further ticket at the end of the zone, then join another train to Versailles; so it was goodbye to Senorita!

Versailles was not a disappointment; never before had I seen such a vast and magnificent pile, and if it had been frequented by pompous and uncaring aristocrats, in the past I could see why France suffered a revolution. I foraged in the town centre for a picnic lunch, then did the tour of the King’s Chambers. After this I found a spot in the gardens to consume my lunch, watching the ample flow of visitors go by, sometimes in horse and trap. Later I returned to do the other tour, and stuffed to the gunnels with sights of one musty and magnificent apartment after another, I was disgorged again into the gardens to enjoy the leisurely wind down of the day.

The gardens at Versailles I have not seen the like of anywhere in England, particularly the vast and lengthy strip of lake that strikes out symmetrically from the back of the Palace, like the trail of an expensive wedding gown. Arrayed around the lake-land are intermingling sets of gardens, woodland and open spaces, with further outlying residences, notably the home of Napoleon, and then the mock rural farm cottages and lake where Marie Antoinette supposedly pretended to be a farmer. I managed to breeze through Napoleon’s quarters just before closing time, before exploring the open spaces.

Soon the feeling struck me that the evening would fast disappear if I did not fairly swiftly return to the centre of Paris with a view to having an evening meal. So I retraced my route back to the majestic entrance of Versailles, and after one last admiring gaze, I strode out for the railway station. It was not long before I was sitting on a Montparnasse bound double decker train wending its way through the Paris suburbs. When we got to the station, I was unsure of the validity of my ticket at this destination vis a vis the metro, so gave the ticket barrier the slip by using stairs down to a lower level, duly finding myself in the entrance concourse. Montparnasse is another one of those evocative Paris railway termini that promises escape to the peasant filled rural idylls so celebrated in French films, to the Mediterranean delights of Provence, or even the start of a trans European journey of discovery. I observed the TGVs lined up and ready to go, only this time the destinations hugged the dune filled and pine forested Atlantic seaboard – Brest, Rouen, La Rochelle and Bordeaux. Alas, it would have to wait for another day!

I duly left the station concourse and headed out into the plaza surrounding the entrance; ahead of you is the Tower Montparnesse, a magnificent tower block with super fast lifts, brilliant views and a chiseled black marble look. I was intent on finding somewhere to eat before getting caught out on late metros like the other night! As I passed the tower to my left I espied one of the younger women from our trip obviously waiting for someone. What were the chances of that happening? I greeted her and as we shared notes on our respective days her brother arrived with his Mauritian wife, an attractive ebony lady. It was now my good fortune to be invited to join them for a drink just over the road. A convivial evening was spent over a jar sharing our experiences; the brother proved to be a teacher in Paris, so we had quite a bit in common. Since I still wanted to eat I broke up with them to find a late pizza or suchlike. Thankfully there were no problems getting home that night.

The last full day was spent at Disneyworld where I found myself sharing the delights of this childrens’ paradise with the very strangely dressed man with pony tail (tree shirts and a jacket, turned up jeans and plimsolls) and an older coloured man from ‘up north.’ This was a most incongruous match and reminded me of the time when I arrived at church in my Honda Prelude sports car and disgorged 2 elderly ladies, one being my mother. Nevertheless a good time was had by all, starting with a circle of the Magic Kingdom on the railway. This was followed by a foray onto Space mountain, which proved every bit as exciting as the Florida Disneyworld equivalent of my USA trip 20 years previously, and of course a trip to the castle, a bit of a folly stuck in the centre of the theme park like a wedding cake on the banqueting table amidst all the other delights. One of the highlights had to be Pirates of the Caribbean, a wonderful waterborne journey through most entertaining scenes from adventures on the high seas and the pillaging of coastal communities, with the usual displays of drunken excess. As the day wore on our friend with the pony tail split the scene to do his own thing, and myself and the jovial coloured Mancunian continued to enjoy the various rides on offer, such as the backward going and upside down roller coaster thriller that was closed for part of the afternoon because of a little rain.

A thoroughly entertaining day ended with our retracing steps to the coach park to commence the journey home. It is worth noting that the euro star has a station at Disneyworld; a reasonable day out from Ashford or Waterloo return for those who want to entertain the youngsters.

Despite a late night ferry return to the UK, followed by an even later car journey home into the small hours, a thoroughly worthwhile expedition had been accomplished, with very pleasant companions. Three cheers for a scratchcard holiday!


(Real life names have been changed)






　

London Underground

Fun on the London Underground

　

I had spent a day at the coal face in North London learning how to mark GCSE exam scripts using Epen, an online assessment tool that would do away with the yearly ritual of mountains of scripts arriving at your house from far flung corners of the realm, and even from places overseas such as the Bahamas. Relieved to be out in the fresh air again, all there was to do was to leisurely make my way home to West Sussex via Victoria train station, so I wound my way to the Underground station via passing a building I thought looked like Arsenal Football Club, but what in fact turned out to be Pentonville Prison! 

I caught a tube back to Central London and sat down for the journey of several stops. The compartment was well populated and I found myself sitting almost directly opposite an animated character holding forth to those around him. A middle aged and friendly faced gentleman of portly frame, dressed in a light coloured, rumpled suit seemed to be talking to the whole carriage and not just to the person next to him. I soon cottoned on that we had a premier league eccentric in our midst who was giving a full blown tourist brochure talk on all the places we were passing through (or under!). From Caledonian Rd to Green Park, a full six stops and enough time to enjoy a cappuccino at leisure, we were treated to a rich historical narrative on the wondrous London landmarks directly above us. Having a great sense for the ridiculous, I had to stop myself laughing loud and long, especially as the young lady directly opposite me kept catching my eye and bursting into a giggle. It was fatal to catch the orator’s gaze, as he would start to address you as if you were the only person in the carriage; so I had to settle for frequent glances at him and everyone else to check on the impact.

‘And now we are passing under that great Victorian hostelry, the Berkshire hotel, where weary travellers from the shires would luxuriate in the handsome four posters at night and dine on our famous English breakfast before setting of on a day's sightseeing in the metropolis. The hotel is famous for its rich tapestries hanging in the main hall,’ .....'and now we are passing under the British Museum, at which you can see a splendid exhibition at present of all things Egyptian, mummies plundered from the Valley of the Kings, bracelets and jewellery from subterranean mausoleums and fine pieces of pottery dug from the desert sands; and my mother would look quite at home amongst the exhibits.’ At this he gave an ear splitting grin.

This unexpected aside prompted a reaction from the said lady sitting across the carriage from him, as bizarrely dressed as he was quaintly talking. Clothed in a colourful top and sporting a wide brimmed hat, looking for all the world as if she was teleported from somewhere in South America, she poked him playfully with a walking stick to shut him up, and aimed a light hearted comment in my direction. Out loud I wondered if the gentleman was being employed by London Transport to entertain the troops. Surely a stroke of genius to wash the weary foot soldiers of office and board room with a little subterranean humour.

…'and if you are in need of a little spiritual refreshment, above us is St James Church, a nineteenth century church in the evangelical tradition where you can seek a little solace from the surrounding hustle and bustle, and hear the angelic choir conducted by Marcus Stephens, that doyen of metropolitan musical tradition,'.....

This went on and on in the same vein, the same gentle and inflated prose exalted the pleasures of London landmarks, regardless of who got on or off. My cup of shared giggles with the young lady was truly full as she eventually alighted to tell her mates of the nutter on the tube. Her place was taken in the garden of mirth by a young couple, who let the ceaseless verbiage wash over them with the greatest receptivity.

What made the whole scene even more hilarious was the tendency for our friend to burst into song every now and again to illustrate his meanderings. Truly this was the best part of the day so far. The point arrived that everyone feared deep down, the advert to the whole carriage to join him and mother for a ‘spot of lunch,’ when even the most courageous soul would sink his head into his neck and look the other way.

Such was the union of humour established between the man and his audience that when the time arrived to say goodbye at Green Park, a cathartic moment was established. As I got up to go, I got a personal invite to lunch as mother and son joined me on the platform (together with a wheelchair for mum that appeared from nowhere!) I had to give my excuses. But the best was yet to come. As the train was about to pull away the man stood, faced the train and sang to the young couple who had resisted the temptation to get off with him; at the top of his voice and oblivious to the crowds around him, he raised his hands towards them and gave a rendering of ‘We’ll meet again’ that would have made even Dame Vera wince with pain. Entertainment extraordinaire!

　

South Downs - Chanctonbury Ring

                                                             Chanctonbury Ring




Chanctonbury Ring from the west

This October 16^th 2012 is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Great Storm of 1987, the worst to affect the south east of England since 1703. That night about 15 million trees were felled by the winds and forests were ruined as winds in excess of 100 miles/hour ravaged the landscape; the ancient iron-age hill top fort of Chanctonbury Ring, north of Worthing just off the A24, was changed forever. On the night of the hurricane most of the beech trees that had formed a wondrous crop atop the Downs, planted by the aristocrat Charles Goring of the Wiston Estate in 1760, were flattened. The storm cut right through the centre of the circle of trees, completely uprooting some trees and pushing some to an irredeemable angle.



Chanctonbury Ring - close up

Standing on the top of the South Downs on a glorious blue sky summer’s day, with the magnificence of the Sussex Weald spread out before you to the north, and the sheen of the English Channel forming a backdrop, it is difficult to believe that this ring of trees crowning the scarp slope like the remaining tuft on a hirsute head has also had such an association with witchcraft and evil.

Chanctonbury Ring is unfailingly beautiful and represents the ultimate appeal of this gentle range of hills, the South Downs, stretching from Winchester to Eastbourne; as well as the 360 degree views, it has a full flush of components to make it a complete weekend walking excursion: rolling down-land, patchwork quilt countryside below, a choice of ascent, notably from the A23 to the west, or the A283 to the north, the most popular route; cosied up against the northern foot of the scarp slope is Wilton Park, with its stately home, Wiston House, used by the government for important conferences; drop down to the north west and you immediately fall upon the watering hole of the Frankland Arms in the backwater village of Washington. This 200 year-old coaching inn was used by Dave Allen, the comedian, for a number of his sketches inside the pub and on the downs.

Ring has clear associations with antiquity. Over 3500 years ago during the Bronze Age a young woman with a bronze dagger was buried near the spot. A thousand years later, during the Iron Age, a hill fort was built there. About 350 years AD, a temple was built inside the earthworks; the evidence is that the temple was used for a mixture of British and Roman beliefs. It is possible that it was a temple to Mithras, the early Persian God who the Romans worshipped. Numerous Roman and Anglo Saxon coins have been discovered on the summit over the years, some dating from the time of the Emperor Nero. One labourer boasted of selling one single coin to a gentleman for about a year’s wages! There are a number of tumuli (ancient burial mounds) spaced along the ridge. In 1588, a defining moment in British history, beacons were lit on the Ring to warn of the Spanish Armada, when Philip II of Spain tried to take England. Again in 1805, when England faced the Napoleonic threat, the Ring was marked out as a beacon station.

The track from the north can be accessed by taking the A283 Washington to Steyning road from the west; just before the entrance to Wiston House and park a lane nicks off to the right as the route to Chanctonbury. By driving up this lane a few hundred yards a car park is reached, from whence you can walk a little further up the lane which gives way to a jagged bosted track that winds up through thickly forested scarp slopes until open down-land is found at the top, where the South Downs Way follows the hill line east-west. This famous walking route stretches 80 miles from Beachy Head in the east to the Hampshire border. By following the track gently upwards through a gate and on over the back of the downs, you reach Chanctonbury Ring, 783ft above sea level.

Alternatively you can take the dog’s leg road that cuts back parallel to the A24 from the village of Washington. Park up at the car park at the end of the lane and then take the track due east up the hill. This is a straightforward route impossible to lose that leads you up to the Ring. As you ascend the well-marked chalk track you might be lucky enough to witness a tiny plane take off from a standing start in one of the little folds of the Downs. Funnily enough, the vicinity has another association with aviation; in 1956 2 Sea Hawk jets were approaching Ford Naval Air Station from Lossiemouth. Sea mist covered the Downs at the time, and one aircraft disastrously hit the ground just southwest of the Ring; the other bounced and carried on to Ford for what must have been an interesting landing.



View over Sussex Weald from the Ring



View from the Ring

 

This ring of trees on top of the downs was decimated in the October 1987 Great Storm, the biggest meteorological phenomenon to hit the UK in the twentieth century, when 100 mph plus winds hit the South of England. Indeed it was the worst storm in 300 years. From a distance it now appears in likeness to the remaining tuft of hair on a hirsute man; there was quite a bit more of that hair before the hurricane, when the 783 ft summit was crowned with beech trees. The trees had an interesting history, and were planted by a 20 year old young man named Charles Goring, the heir to the Wiston Estate, who rather upset the locals with his project who thought his project foolhardy and worried that the line of the Downs would be spoiled. He actually organised water to be carried up the hill to establish the saplings. Charles Goring obviously had a great love for his trees; on his gravestone in Wiston churchyard, overshadowed by a great yew is the following:

... And then an almost hopeless wish
Would creep within my breast,
Oh! could I live to see thy top
In all it's beauty dress'd

That time's arrived; I've had my wish
And lived to eighty-five;
I'll thank my God who gave such grace
As long as ere I live.




There are many pieces of lore connected with the Ring, the most famous being of a common type where the object is walked or run around. In the case of the Ring, if you walk (or run) seven times (sometimes running backwards or anti-clockwise) around it on a dark or moonless night (one account says Midsummer Eve at 7pm, another May Day Eve, another at midnight, during the time it takes a clock to strike midnight) without stopping, the devil will appear and offer you a bowl of milk, soup or porridge (reports vary). Some say that if you accept, he will take your soul, or grant you your dearest wish." It is also said that the devil was responsible for making the Ring, when he threw lumps of earth away as he built the Devil’s Dyke further along the downs near Brighton; other well known spots said to have originated in the same manner were Mount Caburn, Cissbury, Rachham Hill and the Isle of Wight! Another tale is that if you walk or run round the ring on Midsummers Eve at midnight, a druid’s apparition will appear and move towards you.

Witchcraft, UFO sightings, strange presences, levitation, the loss of use of arms and legs. Not the sort of things you would associate with the gentle South Downs of Southern England.

"Even on bright summer days there is an uncanny sense of some unseen presence which seems to follow you about. If you enter the dark wood you are conscious of something behind you. When you stop, it stops; when you go on it follows”

In 1968 a group decided to do a bit of UFO spotting on the Ring one night, and were “rewarded with a sighting, along with waves of intense cold, a sensation of electric shock, difficulty in breathing and stomach pains.” In 1972 3 people saw an object brush the tree tops, large and glowing red. A minute later the object moved away and the people saw blue lights and what seemed to be 4 windows on top of the craft. Something of the same description was seen in 1979.

Stories of witchcraft are rife and sit snugly with all the other associations of this famous beauty spot. Some kind of altar was found in 1979 in the form of a 5-pointed star of flints within a circle of flints; pieces of thick parchment bearing candlewax were also found. Aleister Crowley, famous for occult involvement, thought the Ring was a ‘Place of Power.’

Chanctonbury’s beech heritage is not lost; the Wiston estate, still in the hands of the Goring family, planted 400 trees in February 1991 with financial help form the public and WSCC. A fence has been erected around the trees to give protection.

Chanctonbury Ring from the east

View over the Weald