A winter Devon visit took us to the home of the Frouds. Wendy and Brian Froud live in Devon, in a dingley-dell cottage. The previous owners could well have been Hobbits. Wendy is a puppet maker and had fashioned the creatures for several films, including the fantasy movie Dark Crystal. The house is full of her creations, every nook and cranny harbouring a strange creature. Simply going to the toilet is an adventure in Wonderland. Brian is a writer and illustrator of fantasy books. My favourite is Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Book: fairies caught by the young Lady Cottington and pressed like flowers between the pages of heavy tomes before being mounted. One or two of the fairies did not need to be pressed, since they were peeled from the windscreens of cars.
Brian told us that one day he wanted to do a book of Sheela Na Gigs. These are quasi-erotic carvings found on Romanesque churches, usually of an old woman squatting and pulling apart her vulva. They’re more prevalent in Ireland than most countries, but are found in UK and on the continent too. Some think the Sheelas are pagan, but they are always found on churches and so must have something to do with the early origins of Christianity. However, it is strange to have such an erotic symbol on a church and no one quite knows how old they are or what was their purpose. Brian was fascinated by them but admitted they wouldn’t make a children’s book. To my knowledge he hasn’t yet produced his volume of Sheela Na Gigs.
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About this time we had also taken to going on European city breaks with Bill and Lisa Fedden, to Prague, Vienna, Berlin, etc. It was while we were in Prague that I recalled that Peter Beere, a writer who like many of us sometimes questions the literary value of his work, once sighed and said to me, ‘When I sit down to write, I hope to emulate Kafka, instead I always end up writing like Peter Beere.’ I therefore sent Pete a postcard from the great writer’s house near Old Town Square. On it I scribbled, ‘When I sit down to write, I hope to emulate Peter Beere, instead I always end up writing like Kafka’ and signed it ‘Yours, Franz’.
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Birgit Benkhoff, my German pal from King’s College, had moved from Claygate, just outside London, to take up a professorship at Dresden University. After several years teaching at the London School of Economics she had separated from her husband and was free-flying. I am very fond of Birgit and admire her greatly. We have now been to Dresden many times to stay with Birgit in her art deco flat and seen some of the magnificent buildings which were not burned in the fire-bombing of the Second World War. Those which were scorched have been left blackened, while the rebuilds, such as the Frauenkirche, are of course new looking. The Green Vault, which houses treasures of old Germany, has a huge, astonishing collection of magnificent golden, bejewelled objects and ornaments.
Dresden was also one of the homes of Karl May, born in 1842, who wrote Western stories and tales of the Orient. Old Shatterhand is one of his most famous cowboy stories. There is some doubt that ‘adventures’ he claimed to have had ever really took place, but Karl May was a popular writer of his time and later regarded by the literary world as an innovator. We visited his house, now a museum, several times. It is full of interesting paraphernalia collected by the author.
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Over the turn of the century we visited Canada several times, once a return to Quebec, twice to Annette’s cousin Elizabeth in Vancouver, and twice to Shaney and Mark and the boys in Toronto. With Elizabeth and her husband, Karl, we did a long, lengthy tour of the Yukon and Alaska by car. Karl, a Canadian-German tour guide, had recently been given northern Canada as his new route. It was a great holiday, driving in the land of the midnight sun – well, midnight and all night. The sun never went down. We stayed first at White Horse, then at Dawson City, which was awesome having only dirt roads and the sort of wooden buildings you see in Western films. There was a motorbike rally going on in the Yukon at the time, which added to the excitement. We visited the Klondike gold claims, which were still operated part-time by some residents of Dawson, supplementing their incomes.
When we entered Alaska we were in USA territory of course and the first stop was a town called Chicken with a hundred residents. It had been named when the first settler saw a ptarmigan standing on a rock and decided it was the local equivalent of a hen. A grisled male resident eyed us over a can of beer in the Trading Post and grunted sourly, ‘Welcome to Alaska, where men are men, and women win the Iditerod!’
The Iditerod is a hard gruelling sled dog race which covers over a thousand miles of snow-bound Alaska, usually in around nine to fifteen days. A woman called Susan Butcher had recently won the race four times, a fact which was clearly difficult to stomach for some of the frontier mountain men in that tough, unforgiving land.
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From Chicken we covered just about the whole of mid and south Alaska right down to Skagway where the gunfighter and criminal Soapy Smith met his match in the lawman John Reid. John Reid shot Soapy dead in a gunfight on Juneau Wharf at 9.15 pm, July 8, 1898. Unfortunately for law and order, Reid also died of his wounds, later on that day.
The four of us then struck southwards to Denali National Park where we saw our first wild grizzly bear, a blond giant of a beast chasing a rodent. I had not realised before then that bears could be different shades and blond grizzlies are quite common in that part of Alaska.
We covered thousands of Alaskan and Canadian miles on that trip, all of it in the light, with nary a dark moment.
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The late ’90s also saw a visit to Vietnam, where Glen and Wilma Swaik were based. Glen works for an Australian oil company and they told us they would put us up and we could use them as a base. We had a terrific time. We went with Wilma and her kids to the Cu Chi tunnels dug and used by the North Vietnamese army when they were fighting the Americans. There were three levels of tunnels, each at a deeper depth. Ben, Wilma’s son, who was about eight at the time, wanted to go in the lowest tunnel and Wilma would not let him do it without an adult. I was the mug. I followed our guide, a young Vietnamese with deep scars on his face, who’d been born in the tunnels during the ’60s.
The first layer of tunnels were big enough to crouch inside. The second layer had us crawling on our hands and knees. The lowest level was a wormhole. I was terrified. It was pitch black and I had to position my body as if I were diving into a swimming pool. In this way we had to wriggle along the hot, earth-smelling hole as if we were trying to enter a house by way of the drain pipe. I was conscious of the weight of the earth above and around me. There were questions. What if the soil collapsed and buried me alive? What if I ran out of air? What if our guide had only hate in his guts for Westerners? What if my heart raced too fast and I had a cardiac arrest here in the intestines of Vietnam?
These questions did not need answering in the end of course, because I came to a place where it opened up into a cubic room made of nothing but clay. Ben was effervescent with joy at doing his thing. I was quietly relieved we were all still alive. The guide was smiling one of those oriental smiles I have never been able to decipher. He led us back to the surface where he proved that he did not hate me by letting me have a go with his AK47. I blasted a sandbank with a whole magazine of rounds, before we went on to be shown the mantraps – iron maidens made of sharpened bamboo – that when sprung pierced the stomachs and chests of many an unwary American soldier, spilling giblets on the floor of the jungle. Ben loved these too. In fact Ben liked most things that made an adult’s stomach churn, including handling large snakes, which he made me do with him later on in the day, at a snake farm.
I was actually very fond of that eight-year-old iconoclast.
It was the Swaiks who revived our interest in the Hash House Harriers, that fine Far Eastern tradition which we had come across in Singapore and Hong Kong. Expats get together and do a cross-country run, very often a paper chase, through bush and rainforest, desert and cattle country. The idea is to raise money for charity. At the end of the run you had beer and a hash meal. Ben was asthmatic, the dust made him choke and heave for breath, but the boy
still did the run. The money raised went to the orphanage for children whose sight had been lost following the use of Agent Orange in the war with the Americans. When we got back to UK Annette and I ran our own Hash and raised enough to purchase two more Braille machines and a sackful of toys.
It was in the streets of Ho Chi Min city, which the locals still call Saigon, that I saw some amazing sights. The place was swarming with small motorbikes and I saw a farmer with a live pig sitting upright on the pillion, its forelegs tied around his neck, its bristled cheek next to his own. They looked a handsome couple. I saw a young man standing on the pillion-rider’s pegs, his arms at full stretch sideways holding a huge sheet of glass, while the driver weaved in and out of the masses of vehicles that clog the roads of the city. I saw two beautiful young women, slim and elegant, wearing lilac choeng sams, and evening gloves which covered their arms to their elbows (to protect their skin from the sun), on their heads those oriental conical hats, also lilac coloured. They rode straight-backed, complexions flawless and gleaming, looking as cool as Catgirl.
Our time in Vietnam ended with an evening at the French Embassy Ball. We rode there wearing evening dress in an open-topped 1930’s Citroën owned by Glen. Such style. The French Ambassador greeted us with, ‘Welcome, to the foreigners!’ Foreigners? I suppose we were, in his embassy, but I felt he had a cheek since we were all in the middle of Vietnam.
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After Vietnam we took to returning to our old favourite, Malaysia, on several different occasions. On one of these trips we returned to Frazer’s Hill in the highlands of mainland Malaysia, and to the Cameron Heights, the old tea growing area, where we had taken Rob and Sarah after the Tioman Island trip. Malacca, the old Portuguese colony, has always drawn us with its elegant and stylish ‘Nonya’ families of mixed Chinese and Malaysian descent. And Penang island. And of course Taman Negara, the huge national park reachable only by river.
On one of our last trips to central Malaysia we were both ‘leeched’, Annette worse than me. The journey to the airport was difficult, since we got diverted to an Indian festival on the way and tried to catch a bus afterwards with 10,000 Indians. Bus after bus left the festival area packed with people and after pleading with a driver we managed to cram in next to the gear stick and give way when told to move. Late for our flight, we found ourselves at the airport filthy dirty, with socks and trainers sodden with blood.
As is their wont the leeches had pumped in anti-coagulant where they had bitten and though the creatures had been removed with the assistance of a lighted cigarette end, the wounds refused to stop bleeding. We took off our socks and shoes, threw them in a bin, and climbed aboard the jumbo jet in our bare feet. They were so dirty I don’t think anyone realised we hadn’t got any footwear on, though I noticed we were not given the offer of an upgrade.
The flight was around fourteen hours.
We were so looking forward to a shower.
We arrived back at Wychwater still filthy only to find that the septic tank had backed-up and covered the lawn and the shower room with sewage. There was no bath to be had until we had cleaned up the mess. Rick had already made a start, having visited to get things ready for us and found the devastation. Three hours and a visit from the sewage truck later we were able to get our blessed wash and go to bed. I think that was possibly one of the worst homecomings of my life. It was also one of the best sleeps I’ve every had. Completely comatose.
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In 1997 Annette’s favourite aunt Marjorie had died and left Annette a few pounds in her will. Aunt Marjorie and uncle Reg had lived in Minorca for much of their retirement and we thought it appropriate to put it towards the money to buy a place in Spain. Eric Robinson, Annette’s art tutor at teachers’ training college, was already living in Spain with his wife Gaynor. We had been out to Eric and Gaynor’s Spanish village a couple of times, once with Pete and Peggy Good. They had an apartment in a row of single-storey apartments overlooking the sea on the coast of the Granada province. The Costa Tropical is the most southern part of Andalusia. The foothills of the Sierra Nevadas swept down to their doorstep. A short drive takes you into the mountains, with their Moorish white villages, high vineyards and orange groves. In the tiny village of Gaujara Alto, Carmen has her little bistro tucked away. At Carmen’s you can eat wild rabbit, conejo, with poor man’s potatoes, pobre patates. This meal, preceded by a wonderful soup and accompanied by locally produced wine, is one of my all-time favourites.
So, with aunt Marjorie’s bequest and some money from my writing, we purchased Eric and Gaynor’s apartment. Underneath the main flat is a studio flat, a single room, which Eric used as his painter’s studio. It was the only apartment in the row that was piggy-backed in this way and the two sections are joined by an external staircase. All four of us had to go before a Notary who officiates in the buying and selling of houses in Spain. Gaynor and Eric pledged they were selling ‘in good faith’ and we likewise that we were buying ‘in good faith’ and so the deal was done. We were Spanish-home-owners in a pleasant community with beautiful communal gardens around us.
The Spanish people of the small fishing village of La Herradura are remarkably tolerant and cheerful. They have been invaded by hundreds of Brits, Swedes, Danes, Germans and other odd nations, yet they invariably greet us with a happy ‘Hola’ in the street. I have often said the same would not be the case if a few hundred Spaniards descended on a village in England and took it over. Yes, the incomers swell the economy of the village, but many of the Spanish residents don’t need expats and tourists to make a living. They can do very well without us, thank you very much. Yet even non-restaurant and shop owners say ‘Buenos dias!’ as they pass, the sage old men nodding gravely, the young women flashing smiles.
When you buy a holiday apartment in Andalusia it is almost always fully-furnished, right down to the last teaspoon. And so it was we had nothing more to do than move in and enjoy our new property right from the start. The view from the balcony was at first stunning, the place being high up overlooking the bay, but a Spanish doctor right in front of us has since grown some huge pine trees and blocked off the sea. We can still see the Sierra mountains to our left and hey, looking at trees ain’t so bad, they are usually covered in birds, serins mostly, and the occasional hoopoe. I did offer to have the trees pruned at my expense, for they are ragged and unkempt things and blighted by the notorious ‘processional’ caterpillars. The owner refused. ‘You people just come out here to die,’ he informed me, ‘so you have no need for views.’
Nice man, our Spanish doctor neighbour and totally untypical of our other Spanish neighbours, most of whom come from the city of Granada.
The processional caterpillars, which collect in their hundreds in web-like balls that hang from the pine branches, drop to the ground in February each year and form a line, head to tail, before marching off to unknown destinations like thin green snakes. The hairs on their backs are quite poisonous and can make a human ill and even kill a dog or a cat. If thrown on bonfires the hairs fill the air and can enter a person’s lungs. Yet our friend in front never has his trees treated, as do other residents. Perhaps the caterpillars help swell his list of patients?
Eric and Gaynor moved to a much larger place two doors down, which they purchased from a Dutch couple. They remain good friends and neighbours. Without Eric and Gaynor the place would not be the same. Gaynor manages our apartment when we are absent.
Ana Johnson, a Spanish lady of mysterious age is also a wonderful person to have as an immediate neighbour. Both Gaynor and Ana, permanent residents, keep the community on their toes and assist with the problems of those who arrive at their holiday home to find flood, fire or some other disaster has overtaken their Spanish dwelling.
La Herradura is an idyllic village in a horseshoe-shaped bay. La Herradura means ‘horseshoe’ in Spanish. It is an hour east of Malaga and an hour south of Granada. The beaches are not golden sand, but shingle with grey sand patches, which is a good thing. There are n
o big hotels, very few holidaymakers, and quite a few expat residents. In the background are the magnificent Sierra Nevadas, snow on their tops in the winter. Palm trees line the waterfront of the village, which has several restaurants, shops and a small market. Now that Annette has retired we spend our winters there. The days are around 20 degrees Celsius and the nights a lot cooler, but we have a log fire in the living-room which warms our evenings.
It became a tradition in the late ’90s and after the millennium for Rob and Sarah to join us in Spain over the New Year. We had a lot of fun, walking in the mountains, visiting the white villages of the Alpuljarras that cling to the steep sides and crags. Rob would usually cook for us, he being a very good chef. Annette would often assist him, while Sarah and I stayed clear of the kitchen. One year Rob and Annette decided to cook a suckling pig for New Year’s Eve dinner.
Sarah and I were a little squeamish about the whole thing, having recently seen the movie Babe. So as usual we two left the practicalities of cooking the beast to Rob and Annette. The evening before the day of the meal, Rob quietly followed instructions on how to prepare a suckling pig for the oven. In the middle of the night a thirsty Sarah rose to get a drink. Still half-asleep she went to the kitchen tap with her glass and in the moonlight stared down into a sink filled with water. A submerged pale creature stared back up at her with wide, haunted eyes. Sarah let out a terrible scream and dropped the glass, which shattered on the kitchen floor and woke the rest of the household. Annette and I were in the lower apartment but Rob rushed to the aid of his beloved. He spent twenty minutes explaining to her that all she had witnessed was tomorrow’s lunch undergoing a night’s soaking before being roasted.
On My Way to Samarkand: Memoirs of a Travelling Writer Page 36
