Bathtime Blues by Elaine Pearson

Ey, I haven’t had a bath in ages

And sometimes I wish that I could

‘Cos soaking in lovely warm soap-suds

Would surely do me good

 So, here we are at this posh hotel

With a lovely big bath ‘en-suite’

I thought I’d take advantage

And give meself a treat

 

Well, I managed to climb in alright

Sitting down was a bit of a struggle

Don’t know how I’ll ever get out

I’m in a bit of a muddle!

‘Cos I can’t reach to turn the taps on

And the water’s getting cold

I’m starting to panic just a little

I could be here till I’m old!

So with one almighty effort

I launch meself to standing

There’s me, and water all over the place

It’s running out onto the landing!

Oh, me legs ache, me back hurts, me neck’s stiff

I shan’t try that any more

I’ll stick to me shower in future

Me bath days are over for sure!

Lancashire Landing by Kath Norgrove

Gallipoli military cemetery                                                                                Photo: Kath Norgrove

The sun was warm and already hazy. Before us stretched the end of the Gallipoli peninsular; scrub made way for trees and in the far distance we could make out sandy beaches. We had arrived at the southern end, where on 25th April 1915, British and Allied soldiers came ashore during the World War I Gallipoli Campaign. The peninsular was beautiful and peaceful now, a far cry from the horror nearly a century ago.

We visited a Turkish Cemetery, with rows upon rows of white headstones embedded with glass panels, on either side of which were names of 18 of the fallen. As if to shade these silent sentries, trees were interspersed amongst them, casting a cool air over the 70,000 souls buried there.

The nearby Cape Helles Memorial glared white against the deep blue sky. On it were names of Royal Navy battleships and military Corps that had participated in the Allied landings. British losses are less well known but British troops suffered with approx 220,000 casualties during the equally futile Helles landings.

The steep descent to “W” (Lancashire Landing) Beach, on the west of Cape Helles, was overhung with a thick green canopy of Turkish firs. Named after the battalion of Lancashire Fusiliers who landed here, our interest was with the Worcestershire Regiment who supported them. The rocky water’s edge became an idyllic white sandy beach, the remains of a small boat still partly buried, with the jagged iron edges protruding through the sand like teeth in a gaping mouth. Immersed now in serenity, the beach did not betray the horror and bloodshed that it beheld all those years ago.

Located 500 metres inland, the grey entrance of the Lancashire Landing Cemetery reflected a sombre mood but inside it was immaculately kept; the grass clipped short and tasteful bushes and flowers distributed between the rows of small white squat memorial stones. Surrounded by trees with birds singing, in peace and tranquillity, 1300 faced towards the beach.

We sought one in particular, Private Albert Hill of the Worcestershire Regiment, who died in June 1915 aged 30. My Mum had seen his name on a war memorial at home, but the family never spoke of him or his death.

“It's Row B”, she trailed off; there it was, his stone, weathered but blinding in the midday sun.

“Hello, Granddad”, she said.

(first published August 2020)

Forest of Gold and Kings by Kath Norgrove

The walk was nearly over before it began. The forecast was for cloudy weather, but it was chucking it down with rain, so I felt soggy from the beginning. The 9,000-acre Coed y Brenin Forest Park is situated around the valleys of the Mawddach, Eden, Gain, and Wen rivers. To the east is the wild and lonely Rhobell Fawr, an extinct volcano in the Meirionnydd Mountains, and to the west are the rugged Rhinog Mountains.

This was once part of the historic Nannau estate founded by Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, Prince of Powys, in 1100 AD. The forestry commission brought it in 1920 and renamed it to Coed-y-Brenin (The King's Wood) for the Silver Jubilee of King George V in 1935. It became a Forest Park in the 1990s because of its outstanding walking and recreational opportunities. Today, Natural Resources Wales looks after the forest for people, wildlife and timber production.

The broad gravelled track north from the car park was through Douglas Fir woodland carpeted with ferns, leaves and broken branches to our right and Birch to our left, some of the earliest original forest. Beyond that was the raging Afon Mawddach.

The Vanishing Landscape by Andrew Harrison

July ice melt in Norwegian Fjord                    credit Nike Knudsen

 Sailing through the ‘night’, if such a word can be used to describe a land where the sun does not set for part of the year, we headed north under day lit, grey nimbostratus choked skies. Gently rolling seas rocked our boat, the M/S Nordstjernen. On the morning of Friday 12^th July, we left the sea behind for the calmer waters of Magdalenefjorden. The fjord stretched away to the east with a light breeze rippling its almost mirror like surface. Finely ground sediment, washed off the surrounding landscape, gave the water an almost milky blue-grey appearance. 

Surrounding the fjord on three sides, jagged mountainous peaks rose sharply. Deeply incised valleys, stretching down to the water’s edge, separated the mountains or, on occasion, were left hanging half way up the mountainside. Frozen fresh water lay as pristine white icy patches upon the mountain sides or sat as grubby white glaciers in the valley bottoms.

From the fjord shore to approximately one third up the mountainsides, stretched a noticeable horizontal brownish-grey band like a grubby tidemark. Bare ancient rock and shattered conical scree slopes gave the band its appearance. Above this band, where no ice lay, lichens and mosses covered the upper slopes in deep green and dark brown shades. 

Small icy lumps, like mini icebergs floated on the fjord close to shore. Mini-icebergs and exposed boulders provided ideal resting places for an occasional harbour or bearded seal. Guillemots, little auks and puffins flew about the M/S Nordstjernen or floated happily on the water. Nesting little auks could be heard calling noisily from one onshore vertical cliff. Seals and seabirds alike were all very happy to call this place home. 

However, despite the nature of this tranquil view, all was not well.

Wet Days in Heidelberg! by Jennie Hart

credit: Jennie Hart

Dragon-like the River Neckar

Whips its tail in taunting style

Tearing off the budded branches

Wrenching out the tangled roots

From the flooded riverside

Angry bullish threatening hostile

The river’s mood feels dissolute

 

Turner with his artist’s eye and palette

Paints the Neckar river flowing smoothly

He captures too in warm red hues

The sandstone castle on the hill

A formidable creation

Part destroyed but part rebuilt

Reflecting tastes of former generations

 

Along the water’s edge, a garden snail

Glides along on mottled leaves of ivy

Its horns protrude

A long pair bearing eyes

A short pair aiding sense of smell and touch

A gastropod it revels in the wetness

Joyful in its slippery slimy journey

A lifestyle never changing very much

 

Smooth bark of beech trees shines translucent

Catching sunbeams as they flicker

Through the water-loaded branches

Weighed down by leaves that shake and shudder

In the deluge that’s incessant

On the raging muddy river

credit: Jennie Hart

Star: No Death, Just Paradise by Kath Norgrove

The day had started out hot. We had risen early and made the five-minute drive in search of the Inspector's beach shack. Although, Plage de la Perle was only the next beach along from our accommodation, we were unable to walk there via the headland between due to a challenging hike through dense vegetation.

On arrival, we strolled along the beach and, after a short while, came across the famous rustic hut right on the sand. It’s not quite as remote as it appears on TV, but it was still on a lovely stretch of beach. It is only a temporary structure, and when they are not filming, it is surrounded by Heras fencing for safety. Not only that, but it is then dismantled at the end of the season and reassembled when the cast and crew return the following year. After several photos from every angle and selfies, we walked further along the beach and paddled in the sea. By 9.00 am, it was roasting and in the very high 20s or 30 degrees already, so we headed back to our accommodation for breakfast.

Inexperienced Wanderlust: A novice traveller's exotic encounter on route to a long-awaited dream

Photo courtesy of Adventura

Flying is an adventure in itself, especially when you've only flown once before, and that trip was a two-hour flight to Guernsey. At the time, I was alone on an eleven-hour journey to Bangkok, although I was not travelling entirely solo. I was one of 39 BUNACers travelling to Australia on a BUNAC-organized Work Australia tour, I'd just never met any of them before. To put this into context, my first trip beyond the shores of Blighty was a school trip to Dieppe, Rouen and Paris for a week in 1987. Then this was followed in 1996 by the aforementioned first flight to Guernsey. In late September 1997, after a brief Interrail trip, I departed the United Kingdom for Australia. I was inexperienced and relatively wet behind the ears back then, but I've never regretted taking that huge step for me.

Aside from the descent, which was excruciatingly painful, the flight itself was enjoyable. The airline meals were a learning experience, with the food on the plane being somewhat suspect. There was plenty of space to stretch out, however sleeping was quite uncomfortable, so I did not sleep. Furthermore, my body clock indicated that it was still 11.30 pm Monday when we landed, although we had crossed six time zones, and it was 05.30 am Tuesday!

Individual screens in the back of the seat in front of you were not available back then. The plane had a few major screens that displayed a variety of information, including local time at departure and arrival destinations, local time at the current position, flight height, outside temperature, and projected time of arrival. The route we took was via Amsterdam, Moscow and the Himalayas. We passed over the Himalayas at 7.10 pm local time, flying at 37,000 feet. Virtually the entire flight was in darkness as we flew towards the night.

We arrived in Bangkok absolutely shattered. Once we had managed to crawl through customs, confronted with quite unpleasant customs officials, we were met and greeted by Mr Abdul Yes-Yes. That wasn't his real surname; he got nicknamed that for his habit of saying yes at the end of each sentence. Credit where it was due though, as he spoke excellent English, and gave us a running commentary while we were transferred from Bangkok Airport to Bangkok Centre Hotel in a private air-conditioned coach. Compared with the relative coolness of home, it was soooo hot outside. We'd arrived during the Thai rainy season; Thailand has three seasons, we were informed: Winter, Summer and Rainy. We'd chosen rainy, and it was still hot, whether it rained or not, because the humidity was incredible.

Then we were twinned up after a free glass of ice-cold Coke, with ice in it that no one dared to touch. I was put in with a girl named Anna who reminded me of someone from Uni—actually, the Uni girl and someone else—but I never did put my finger on whom the other one was. We were left to spend the remainder of the morning and the afternoon at leisure, but most of us fell asleep until mid-afternoon. Then we showered and did venture out a little way but thought better of it because of the heat, bought some litre bottles of water for 25p, and headed back to the hotel to try and fathom out the curious Thai TV. I'm glad to say that an appreciation of other cultures and how to better embrace them has grown on me over the years since then.

At 7 p.m., we set off for a traditional Thai dinner and classic Thai dancing at the Baan Thai Restaurant. There were five bowls with different things in them. First up was a vegetable soup—a bit watery but definitely edible. Next was pork, I think, or maybe chicken, or one of the swans from their lotus-laden pool in their old-world garden, or perhaps some rat out of the gutter mixed with onions and peppers and boiled up, tasting a bit like chicken chow mein without the spice. The third dish was a Thai curry; they said it was mild, but it was a vicious piece of work. It tasted nice, though, when the fire had stopped raging in your mouth, especially the meat, though I was a little dubious as to what meat I'd just eaten. A seafood salad to follow, I think. It made me cringe for ages afterwards just thinking about that. Lastly, the meat and vegetables thing in batter. Whatever it was, it tasted awful. Then it was onto the dancing. It was grand for the first one or two, and the mask play was actually very good, but the rest became quite dull. It wasn't just me; all the others said the same. The worst sight of the night, though, was the filthy canals with what I could only describe as sheds with people living in them, partly overhanging the canal, appearing to virtually drop into them.

I awoke the next morning feeling ruddy awful. There were several things that might have caused that, but my main suspect was the previous night's meal. That and the not-so-wonderful breakfast selections were enough to immediately stop any kind of hunger pangs.

We left at 8.30 a.m. for the Grand Palace Tour, which was quite good. It was the famous palace featured in the film 'The King and I'. We even saw the schoolroom where Anna taught the young Prince Chulalongkorn. At secondary school, I'd taken part in a 'King & I' play that had teachers, pupils, and the nearby primary school kids involved. I was too small to be one of the king's wives, so I ended up being one of the bigger children, though some of the primary school kids were nearly as tall as me! I was a super short-arse in those days, and not much has changed!

The day was hot and humid, and we were glad to return to our air-conditioned coach. It was back to the hotel for a not-impressive lunch before onward we went for a City and Temples Tour in the afternoon; the temples and their Buddhas, including a sitting Buddha, a leaning Buddha, and another Buddha. After the tour, we were transferred to Bangkok International Airport.

After checking in, it was tea at Burger King; never before had a cheeseburger, fries, and coke tasted so good! We all agreed that Bangkok was definitely an eye-opening experience, but we were glad to go! Nice to visit, but even better to leave! I do wonder how I would feel about the place if I visited it now, nearly three decades later.

And so, glad to be out of there, at 20:35 hours, we enthusiastically waved goodbye to Bangkok and Thailand, which looked much better from the air than on the ground. Then it was another long-haul flight of 8 or 9 hours. The film 'Gone Fishing' was shown, and afterwards I slept. Gone Fishing was cack, by the way.

A sense of timelessness ensued. We crossed the equator at midnight local time, and then we crossed three more time zones. After another night on the plane and more strange, but a bit more edible, Thai food, it would soon be time to arrive in Sydney. I remember looking out of the window and seeing the Stuart Highway for the first time. Looming over the Northern Territory, we were tantalisingly close yet still 2,500 miles and nearly four and a half hours of flight time away.

The descent wasn't as bad as the previous flight, mainly because I sucked several trillion sweets to aid pressure equalisation. But all of a sudden I was excited. We were flying over New South Wales, and we were close to landing on Australian soil. I remember thinking:

“I've done it! I've made it, I've actually made it. The day I could only dream of has now arrived!” 

There was no doubting the 'Wow' factor and that this was a very magical moment for me. After starting out without much experience, I proceeded to seize the opportunity with both hands and flourished on a 15-month odyssey to Australia, New Zealand, Fiji and Rarotonga in the South Pacific. I was given a whole new perspective on life, gained confidence, learning independence, tolerance and self-reliance. The Travel Bug had bitten and I was hooked!

Since then, I have been incredibly lucky and privileged to have experienced many 'once-in-a-lifetime' adventures.Travelling is the opportunity to step out of one's little world & glimpse someone else's, take a thoughtful insight into other cultures & customs, embrace new experiences and open your eyes to the world beyond your doorstep.

Kath Norgrove: Travel Writer and Environmentalist (blog links republished from April 2020)

We are delighted for Kath whose profile has just been featured by the Society for the Environment on their website at:

https://socenv.org.uk/page/profilekathnorgrove

Kath Norgrove is a Hightown Writer who has enjoyed travel writing for some time:
Check out blogs from Kath:
Passion4Travel https://kathspassion4travel.blogspot.com
Kath’s Jottings https://kathnorgrovejottings.blogspot.com
and a new blog to watch from both Kath and Andy Harrison:
Bird Splat https://birdsplatted.blogspot.com

Postcard from 2020 Guadeloupe from Kath and Andy xx

I came, I thaw, I conquered by Kath Norgrove

credit: Kath Norgrove

The journey began with a drive through a moonscape; well that's my best description of it, with basalt, solidified lava, greyish volcanic granite, and silica. This place is known as "The land of fire and ice" for good reason; from its centre on a geological hot spot with 132 volcanic mountains and 30 active volcano systems, including subglacial volcanoes, to the glaciers that cover over 14% of the entire country. The combination of high mountains, glaciers, thaw/freeze cycles and copious precipitation has also created an abundance of waterfalls. 

We began our day at Gulfoss Waterfall, which is actually two falls that cascade 32m into a steep-sided canyon kicking up a wall of spray in the process. The two falls are 11m and 21m respectively. When the sun catches the spray, it lights up the falls with a warm yellowish glow giving it its other name of the “Golden Waterfall”. The spray wet me and the air was cold, so I felt like I was getting a chill.

Gulfoss - credit: Kath Norgrove

At least our second stop was a bit warmer; a visit to the geyser geothermal field, home to the now inactive "Great Geyser" Geysir and its buddy Strokkur. The “Great Geyser” was the original sprouting hot spring and all the others around the world are named after it. Strokkur, translated as “The Churn”, sends a column of water some 30m high at regular intervals. There's a rope round it so you don't get too close, but one can still end up a little soggy when it goes off.

credit: Kath Norgrove

Our last stop of the day, where I had almost warmed up was Bingvellir National Park where the first national parliament (Alpingi) in the world was created. It first convened in AD930. þingvellir also sits on the mid-Atlantic Ridge where the continental plates of Eurasia and North America are pulling apart creating earthquakes and volcanic activity. This is causing the country to grow. Indeed the land in the Almannagja Fissure where the Alþingi met literally sits between the two continental plates.

*

The next day was a glacier hike on the glacial tongue of Solheimajökull off the main icecap at Myrdalsjökull reputedly the islands´s 4th largest, with the dormant volcano Katla lying underneath. Our guide cheerfully explained that the country usually gets an eruption every 2-5 years before quietly adding that there had been none for 5 years so "we´re due one now"! 

Frozen Rivers of Ice by Kath Norgrove

NORTH

Somewhere in the North Atlantic lies the 103,000 sq km icy cold wind and rainy Iceland. 10-15% of the country is covered by ice of which the majority is by the world´s 3rd largest icecap after Antarctica and Greenland.

Taking a walk on the ice side, I enjoyed a guided glacier hike on the glacial tongue of Solheimajökull. This icy ribbon off Iceland´s 4th largest icecap, Myrdalsjökull, sits atop the dormant volcano Katla. Our guide cheerfully explained that Iceland usually gets an eruption every two to five years before quietly adding that there had been none for five years so, "we´re due one now"! 

Nordic Winter’s End by Elizabeth Obadina

This January 2022, in Norway it feels like winter has ended. 

I have not been entombed in deep snow. Traffic has not been silenced as it drives upon impacted snow. The roads are clear. No one is skiing. Children aren’t sledging. There is no snow: only ice patches in the shadows and lurking as black ice on pathways waiting to trip up the unwary. Although everyone still wears their woollen underclothes, the extra layers of fleeces, gloves, hats and scarves are not essential life savers. Not in 2022. In 2022 the temperature hovers just above freezing. Youngsters still skate on frozen pools – but for how long? There are no icebreakers on the fjord. There is no ice on the fjord. It feels like spring or perhaps this is how global warming feels like? January 2022 feels just as April used to feel a decade ago.

So tonight I will share with you memories of how a Norwegian March felt long ago in 2011 at the end of a real winter when everyone was wearily waiting for April, spring and the first flowers:

Stormy Weather. The early 1960’s. The M.V.Dunera. The Bay of Biscay and Me – as partially remembered, with all the wrong names! - by Elizabeth Obadina (aged about 12 ¾)

It’s hard to believe how high these waves are. It’s not cold though. Grey seas, grey skies and even the ship looks grey. Strange to think that just over twenty years ago these decks would have been full of soldiers going off to fight, or perhaps they were being brought back. I wonder if they knew where they were going. I suppose they could guess by the kit they were issued with. I don’t see why we’ve had to spend two weeks in school uniform. Other schools have allowed own clothes. I know there isn’t much space for us all to have big suitcases but all the same I could have done with a bit more space and I’ve nowhere to put my souvenirs. I’ve had to use the Moroccan blanket as a bed spread and Anne Thorley has already spilt that sticky orange drink they keep dishing out on to it. I expect Mum will be able to get rid of the stain when we get home. It feels very rough, it smells a bit funny too; a camel-ly pong. I wonder if washing it will make it softer and smell nice or whether the colours will just run.

Thank heavens I’m upwind of Gillian Bone. Seeing her throwing up into a sick bag is bad enough without having to smell it too. As it is the smells are pretty vomit inducing; fried eggs and bacon and diesel fumes.

I wonder what Lisbon will be like.

Hope we don’t do anything to get arrested. I don’t like the idea of being in a dictatorship. Still it can’t be as dangerous as Tangiers and that was OK. It’ll be good to dock again.

The Harbour of Dinllaen and The Town of The Giants by Kath Norgrove

Autumn Equinox on the North Wales Coast - photo Kath Norgrove

It was an autumnal start to the last day of summer - drizzly, cloudy & overcast having rained overnight again. According to the astronomical calendar, today was the seasonal transition marking the end of summer and start of autumn in the UK. We were headed over to the rugged north coast of the 'Land's End' of North Wales, officially designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

Although it was no longer mizzly, clouds still hung low across the sky as we started walking. Slowly, though, the weather began to brighten up with clouds dissipating and moving across the promontory to which we were headed. We began following the Llwybr Arfordir Cymru (Wales Coast Path) along the cliff edges around the perimeter of a golf course. It was a little unnerving wondering whether a golf ball might come too close for comfort and one almost did!

Faint traces of earthworks – ditches and ramparts - extended across the peninsular at its narrowest point, evidence of an Iron Age fortress which once guarded the rugged coast against attacks from Irish invaders. It was very late in the morning and we were finally seeing the remnants of summer weather: sunshine and temperatures creeping up to 18'c. Below us were turquoise waters in sheltered bays, with the deeper areas turning indigo. Up above were blue skies, with only patchy fluffy clumps of cloud inland but not a cloud in sight looking out to sea.

Palermo by Jennie Hart

Sicilian capital, Palermo, has a strong pulse and a beating heart. It takes your breath away and adds it to its own. There is beauty in the narrow streets and the broad corsos. Palazzos and churches, piazzas and gardens, decorate the urban landscape. Mountains form a bold back-drop and the blue ocean a delicate frill.

Luxury yachts, like four by fours, have taken over the harbour, shrinking the space for fishermen whose livelihoods depend on the sea.

La Martorana, a medieval chiesa, received its name from the convent it was given to by the Spanish. Ignore the Baroque makeover; the ribbed arches and slender columns are graceful works of art.

There’s a wedding and the bride is in a gorgeous white gown. The young women guests are mostly in black. These tall girls, with brown legs and high heels, belong on the catwalk. Will they become like the bride’s mother who is plump in pink and green?

The chapel within the twelfth century Norman Palazzo, is a breath-taking, memorable sanctuary. It trembles with mosaics in vivid colours, configured in Arabic motifs, entwining and spiralling like a medieval parterre.

But Palermo is also squalid and dirty. It is drowning in tattered brown leaves and flattened popcorn cartons. ’Mia Amore’ says a discarded box from a little girl’s doll. ‘Il fumo uccide’ say packets emptied of Galoises, but no one takes any notice. Cigarette ends are strewn under park benches and towering pines, in alleyways and gutters, speaking of addiction.

Walk along the water’s edge of Aspra, a small town near Palermo, but don’t dare to swim. Pollution has spoiled our beautiful ocean, reads a notice by the sands. Try lying on the beach and a bad odour tangles in the nostrils. Dogs were here today, and yesterday.

There’s a dead rat displaying its entrails. Wild bees with bronze wings and yellow tattoos throb around and gorge on the creature, droning and buzzing. It’s a sickening sight. We came by train, just fourteen kilometres to a station with two rails, up and down. No one obeys the order not to walk across the track. Everybody ‘walks the line’, not the subway, except us and the worn-out.

A special exhibition has exquisite works and I study a Caravaggio. Two people ignore my presence and stand in front of me. They want to see the painting and ignore me completely, so now I cannot see. I want to shout at them but I do not have their language.

There is graffiti everywhere, some of it inspired, but this vibrant, sun-kissed, intoxicating city and its people defeat the squalor and grime. We were shown friendship almost everywhere and drink coffee with a young couple who may come and stay. Patrizia is Spanish but the young man is Sicilian and irresistible. Why? Because his name was Salvo, just like Montalbano!

'Under milk wood' ~ Our Dylan Thomas Walk by Kath Norgorove

River Taf from Dylan's Walk. photo Kath Norgrove

Breakfasting in the sunshine overlooked by Laugharne castle beside the River Corran was the first stop on our 'Dylan Thomas walk' exploring places connected with the stormy welsh Poet's life. Laugharne, pronounced 'Larn', was granted its 1st charter in 1307 & retains some of its medieval traditions. One of these is a town council known as the Court Leet presided over by a Portreeve, elected annually. It also had the reputation as a haunt for pirates during the 16th century; close as it was to shipping in the Bristol Channel.

Coast of France et cetera! by Jennie Hart ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ HTW's last fling of summer ~ happier memories to enjoy on this unseasonal, unusual August Bank Holiday Monday :(

Such a treat relaxing on the deck

On plastic chairs in brilliant morning sun,

Arms and legs on show for all to see,

Reading Alan Bennett - Oh what fun!

 

Waves splash and sparkle, crash against the hull,

There’s land in view, and cranes like dinosaurs

Tower black and tall before the high-rise flats

As if to capture tourists in their jaws!

 

With books and bags we strive to find our car,

Avoiding bodies heading down there too,

Memory stumbles; Level D or E?

Wish I’d bought that perfume boxed in blue!

 

Think of the boat that sank as wait to leave,

Hope all bow doors are shut to curb the tide,

Get butterflies ‘til hear the first ‘Bonjour!

No passport check, we’re EU – still inside!

 

On our way and driving on the right,

A little thrill to see the first ‘Arret!’

And ‘Creperie’ and ‘Tabac’ boldly signed,

Can’t wait to dine and have our first gallette!

 

Things are a little casual - see that man?

A mattress on the roof he’s holding on

With sturdy hand, the other on the wheel,

Galois between his teeth. ‘Ce n’est pas bon!’

 

Enfin! The promenade and our hotel,

An airy room, a wide inviting bed,

A kettle and some tea bags, all is fine,

Forget the maps, there’s Alan to be read! 

 

'Somewhere Else' - a personal view from 1960s England by Elizabeth Obadina

My affinity with ‘Somewhere Else’ culminated with a deep affinity with Nigeria but began, I only lately realised, long before I married, took a Nigerian name, bore three lovely half Nigerian, half British children and lived ‘Somewhere Else’… in Nigeria.

My affinity with ‘Somewhere Else’ began long before I met Tunde, your grandad, long before I even realised where Nigeria was. Like most British people in the 1960s, ‘Africa’ to me meant the Safari countries of East Africa with exotic big animals, or perhaps South Africa, certainly not West Africa. Somehow, perhaps because teachers know that children love chocolate, I’d learnt about cocoa farming in Ghana, a small country in West Africa compared to its big brother, Nigeria. Nigeria is where a quarter of all Africans live, but I never knew that. Not then. Not until much, much later.

I grew up in southern England, in a part of Dorset full of retired ex-colonials of one sort or another. On one side were neighbours, sisters who had been brought up in India, on the other side our next-door neighbours were a couple and their son from China. I only discovered much later that the son was the man’s son and the lady’s nephew, but I’m wandering already. This chap had been a banker in China and at the end of my road lived our Congregational minister who been a missionary in China. He and his wife always smiled and slightly bowed and nodded in the Chinese fashion when they talked to you. In Sunday School we followed and raised money for the missionary meanderings of the ship ‘John Williams’ which was always sailing off ‘Somewhere Else’, somewhere exciting and new in the South Seas.

Opposite us was a family from Australia who had built their bungalow in the Australian style and two other houses ‘over the road’ contained occupants who had lived in Kenya and South Africa before the war. The war, the Second World War, was not so long past; it was an elephant in everyone’s room which had been gathering dust for ten to twenty years; it was an elephant which had rampaged through everyone’s lives sending these servants of the British Empire back to the mother-country. Mao’s communists had no need of bankers and missionaries in China, the ex-RAAF Australians preferred the life of cosmopolitan Europe to the distant harshness of outback living and stayed behind in their grandparents’ motherland when the war ended. Kenya was dispensing with the services of elderly British district officers and the South Africans weren’t racists and after the war found apartheid impossible to live under.

Everyone had their stories, including my own family. With rose-tinted spectacles everyone told tales that made ‘Somewhere Else’ seem wonderful compared to my humdrum schoolgirl existence.

It wasn’t just the stories either. ‘Somewhere Else’ was tangible, I could feel it and handle it. As a Brownie and then a Guide super keen to earn the most ‘Willing Shillings’ in the pack I inveigled my way into most neighbours’ homes and dusted and polished and cleaned my way through the bric-a-brac of ‘Somewhere Else’, of Empire – a lot of polishing for quite a few shillings!

I carefully dusted the Chinese jade, china and ivory ornaments next door sitting on a silk rug bathed in slats of soft green sunlight seeping through green venetian blinds. For that task I not only got my shilling but a taste of ‘Somewhere Else’ too when my neighbour gave me a bowl of white gloopy stuff which I gagged over. She told me it was called yoghurt. ‘Somewhere Else’ clearly wasn’t always sweetness and light.

The neighbours who had lived in Africa; Kenya and South Africa, let me polish carvings of elephants and people and had big stuffed leather pouffes in their sitting rooms. The ladies who had lived in India had printed cotton Indian bedspreads on their beds. I saw those when I polished the silver frames of photographs on dressing tables; studio portraits of an Edwardian family accompanied by turbaned or veiled Indian attendants and perhaps a tiger skin rug or perhaps I’m imagining the tiger skin.

For me, the smell of ‘Somewhere Else’ was polish.

Added to such burnished, museum memories were other experiences which brought an affinity for ‘Somewhere Else’ into our home.

Our house had been used as a billet for American soldiers during the war and the old man we had bought the house from never thought to whitewash the graffiti in the outside toilet, or to blacken graffiti engraved into the lead beading separating the windowpanes. Concealing the difficult to explain phrases, which I just wish I could remember, but can’t, was the first job my mother tasked my father with when we moved in. The departing soldiers had also used the oak banisters of the staircase for firewood, leaving unattractive, painted hardboard in their place. We had moved into a home which had been invaded by ‘Somewhere Else’ – according to street lore, the Americans had even parked their jeeps on the front garden rockery. It was all seductively exciting!

My mother, whose own dreams of living ‘Somewhere Else’ had been thwarted by war and being an only child left to care for ailing parents, decided that if Mohammed, that is my mum, couldn’t go to the mountain, the mountain of ‘Somewhere Else’ would have to come to Mohammed. These were the days of building the Commonwealth and Britain edging closer to Europe. At school we held an annual ‘day’ for different countries and in my mum’s Townswomen’s Guild, they too celebrated the way of life of a different country each year. These ‘days’ involved cooking strange foreign foods – like rice that wasn’t in a milk-pudding, dressing up and guests, lots of guests. Mum was an enthusiastic supporter and participant in all these events. She created approximations of national costumes for us all to wear and above all she offered accommodation in our spare room for exchange students from Europe and guest speakers. This was how I met black people for the first time, when the Commonwealth Institute sent a Ghanaian and a Kenyan speaker to tell the girls in my school about the Commonwealth in Africa. The two speakers stayed with us, and my open-minded mum and my headmistress who lived up the road made sure they received a warm welcome in a part of 1960’s England where everyone, except our two visitors was white!

Unsurprisingly Geography became my favourite subject at school, and I went on to study it at university, but it wasn’t just the academic study that nurtured my affinity for ‘Somewhere Else’. Our school, a girl’s school, named its houses after notable women each with an attractive house-colour. As I desperately wanted to be either one of the cleverest girls, who all seemed to be in Curie House (pine green) or one of the sporty in-crowd who all seemed to be in Nightingale House (ruby red), I was singularly unimpressed at being allocated to Slessor House whose drab yellowish-green was a truly horrible house-colour. We raised money for Leper Colonies around the world, especially West Africa. It wasn’t a sexy charity, even if it was ‘Somewhere Else’, and we were the worst house at sports; a losing team whom I subsequently, conveniently ‘forgot’ I’d been part of. However, being a Slessor girl was a foreshadowing of my affinity with Nigeria, but I didn’t think about it or make the link until years and years later.

Mary Slessor was a Scottish missionary, whose face still features on Scottish Clydesdale Bank notes. She settled in eastern Nigeria, near Calabar, and was famous for saving newborn twins who were   traditionally abandoned by some eastern Nigerian people who believed they brought evil. Unlike the people Slessor met, most Nigerians believe twins are special and have special names for them, like the Yoruba people of western Nigeria who always call twins Taiwo and Kehinde. Once I had left school, I never thought about leper colonies, sickly-green or Mary Slessor and her twins again.

However, nearly a quarter of a century later, I was standing beneath a statue of Mary Slessor, with my three children in the eastern Nigerian city of Calabar in the school holidays of 1988, when the penny dropped, and the Nigerian connection from my 1960s school days was made. Slessor House!! How could I have forgotten? Then I immediately remembered the Slessor House colour of sickly yellow green which I’d hated. This green is one of two default colours for indoor walls in Nigeria and I loathed it, especially when I found my first apartment in Lagos was painted ‘Slessor’ green throughout. The other default Nigerian interior wall colour is bold turquoise blue, too strong a colour for me, but just about bearable to live with, but yucky green – no – but it was evidently my predestined but unloved colour affinity!

My youthful desire to explore and experience what was once different has nowadays mellowed. Nowadays 24-hour global communication brings ‘Somewhere Else’ instantly to a screen in my pocket or my desk or my living room. Global tourism has put most places within reach of ordinary travellers. Migration has brought familiarity and friendship between peoples from all over. ‘Instagram’ and ‘Tik-Tok’ share images and sounds of beautiful places and different cultures.  I no longer gag on yoghurt – indeed I eat it every day. Foods from ‘Somewhere Else’ are part of my and everyone’s daily diet – there was even a packet of ‘Instant Jollof Rice’ – a West African staple food - on the shelf of my local, rural supermarket in Middle England when I last went shopping. ‘Somewhere Else’ has come home and sometimes I wonder what the triggers will be which send my twenty-first century grandchildren off on their own voyages of discovery and exploration. Indeed, what sort of ‘voyages’ might they be?  

We do like to be beside the seaside! by Jennie Hart

It’s a sweltering morning, almost tropical as we walk by the old sea wall between Walton-on -the-Naze and Frinton. There is an amazing sight when we turn a bend. Rows and tiers of quaint beach huts, arranged like teeth along the concrete walk and hill-side behind. I feel as if I’ve entered toy town.

Spanking new wooden huts are interspersed amongst ageing models, some painted cheerful colours but most are plain or varnished, showing varying degrees of decline and decomposition. Many doors are secured with bolts and padlocks looking absolutely impregnable as if they held gold bullion. We saunter along and encounter families who have set up house for the day by the sea wall or on their terrace. We sneak a peep into their temporary homes and see the domesticity within. There are kettles and mugs, shelves with plates, hooks with colourful beach towels, rugs and old chairs, and in one, a narrow bed.

Lancashire Landing by Kath Norgrove

Gallipoli military cemetery                                                                                Photo: Kath Norgrove

 

The sun was warm and already hazy. Before us stretched the end of the Gallipoli peninsular; scrub made way for trees and in the far distance we could make out sandy beaches. We had arrived at the southern end, where on 25th April 1915, British and Allied soldiers came ashore during the World War I Gallipoli Campaign. The peninsular was beautiful and peaceful now, a far cry from the horror nearly a century ago.

We visited a Turkish Cemetery, with rows upon rows of white headstones embedded with glass panels, on either side of which were names of 18 of the fallen. As if to shade these silent sentries, trees were interspersed amongst them, casting a cool air over the 70,000 souls buried there.

The nearby Cape Helles Memorial glared white against the deep blue sky. On it were names of Royal Navy battleships and military Corps that had participated in the Allied landings. British losses are less well known but British troops suffered with approx 220,000 casualties during the equally futile Helles landings.

The steep descent to “W” (Lancashire Landing) Beach, on the west of Cape Helles, was overhung with a thick green canopy of Turkish firs. Named after the battalion of Lancashire Fusiliers who landed here, our interest was with the Worcestershire Regiment who supported them. The rocky water’s edge became an idyllic white sandy beach, the remains of a small boat still partly buried, with the jagged iron edges protruding through the sand like teeth in a gaping mouth. Immersed now in serenity, the beach did not betray the horror and bloodshed that it beheld all those years ago.

Located 500 metres inland, the grey entrance of the Lancashire Landing Cemetery reflected a sombre mood but inside it was immaculately kept; the grass clipped short and tasteful bushes and flowers distributed between the rows of small white squat memorial stones. Surrounded by trees with birds singing, in peace and tranquillity, 1300 faced towards the beach.

We sought one in particular, Private Albert Hill of the Worcestershire Regiment, who died in June 1915 aged 30. My Mum had seen his name on a war memorial at home, but the family never spoke of him or his death.

“It's Row B”, she trailed off; there it was, his stone, weathered but blinding in the midday sun.

“Hello, Granddad”, she said.