mardi 11 septembre 2012
mercredi 11 juillet 2012
The Saga of the d'Umphrevilles-a medieval mystery
It's cold,very cold and the snow is thick on the ground when I fly back into Paris from Hong Kong. As the aircraft circles the city on its approach to Charles de Gaulle airport I catch my first glimpse of the snowy grey landscape beneath.The wooded hills to the west of the city are white, the outline of the bare trees stark against the snow; it resembles a scene from the northern U.S or Canada. In the streets people walk, their muffled heads down against the bitingly cold east wind coming straight off the tundra of eastern Europe I have just flown across.
After a few days layover to get over my jet lag and a quick trip back home to check all is O.K, I decide to head back to the U.K. before Paul and I leave for Andalucia in March.
I arrive at my friend Jeff's in Wales a few days later.It's cold but at least here on the coast of the Bristol Channel I escape the snow. There's rain and lots of it but that's not unusual for Wales.
Jeff and I share a passion for history and over one one of his famous breakfasts next day we discuss something which has been intriguing him for some time.
A while ago he had read an historical novel set in the reign of Henry V, his siege of Harfleur and the long march northwards to Calais which resulted in the encounter with the massed French forces at the battle of Agincourt in 1415. In the novel, a young knight, Sir Gilbert d'Umphreville appears in the march northwards and is killed in the ensuing battle.
The name d'Umphreville was familiar to Jeff as the lords of the castle of Penmarc near Rhoose in the Vale of Glamorgan not far from the modern Cardiff airport. Jeff lives not far from Penmarc and had decided earlier in the year to visit the village and to try to locate the remains of the d'Umphrevilles' castle. Unfortunately, he had taken the wrong road and had up in a narrow, muddy lane unsuitable for two wheeled drive vehicles. He decided to abandon his search for the time being.
Following our discussion over breakfast,we decided on a Google search in order to fill in the details on the d'Umphrevilles and then to visit the castle by a better route. What follows is an account of an interesting day we spent tracking down the d'Umphreville family and their connection with South Wales.
Gilbert d'Amphreville raised a castle consisting of a wooden motte and bailey at Penmarc in the 12th century. Given that the battle of Agincourt took place in 1415 then clearly this Gilbert could not have been the same Gilbert who built Penmarc castle. Research showed that the Gilbert who built the motte and bailey castle, an early form of fortification popular following the Norman conquest, was a follower of Robert Fitzhamon a crony of William Rufus the son of William the Conqueror.After being awarded the lordship of Gloucester, Fitzhamon embarked upon an invasion of South Wales with his companion knights one of whom was Gilbert d'Umphreville.
Gilbert was apparently the son of Robert d'Amphreville one of the Norman knights who accompanied William the Conqueror on his conquest of England in 1066. For his services to the Conqueror, d'Amphreville senior was rewarded with lands in Northumberland in the north east of England.The young Gilbert who was born in the early 1060's was, in turn, rewarded with lands around Penmarc for his services to Fitzhamon. The chief seat of the d'Amphreville family however seems to have been around Redesdale, Northumberland, the lands won by his father Robert after the battle of Hastings.Although the castle of Penmarc in Glamorgan remained in d'Amphreville hands until late in the 15th century, it changed hands following the marriage of one of the daughters.The d'Amphrevilles or d'Umphrevilles as they appear to be calling themselves by the late Middle Ages, continued to be a force majeur in the north of England and Scotland where they became minor royalty through marriage. The Gilbert we were trying to trace, the one present at Agincourt in 1415, ( not an easy job since Gilbert seems to have been a favourite family first name for centuries) had an uncle who was implicated in a plot to depose Henry V but seems himself to have been a loyal supporter of the king.
We were interested in finding out if the Gilbert of Agincourt was a member of the Welsh branch of the family. Further research however revealed this not to be the case. He was in fact one of the Northumberland d'Umphrevilles, a high ranking knight who was not killed at Agincourt but who, after the battle, was awarded the title of Marshal of France and appears as such in Shakespeare's play, Henry V. He seems to have been instrumental in Henry's marriage to the French princess but was later killed at the disastrous battle of Baugés in 1421.So there you go, an historical mystery solved. Later that day we visited Penmarc castle and the adjoining church. Little remains of the castle as the photo shows but the village is charming and retains its Anglo-Norman character.
Further research led us to Gileston,a small village on the coast near Penmarc. Gileston church is dedicated to St.Giles but the village takes its name from the Giles family who held the manor in 1350. The present church dates from the 15th century as does its door which is decorated with six carved heraldic coats of arms of local aristocratic families.There we found the arms of the d'Umphrevilles of Penmarc-six flowers of five equal petals.The door dates from the period between 1450 and 1480 and still retains the original hinges and handle.It's well worth a visit and the vicar's wife who showed us around is a charming lady!
samedi 12 mai 2012
Retrospective: the past is a foreign country
In a surprisingly mild late autumn I found myself back in Wales which I left forever at the age of 19 to go off to college.It was there that I first met Jeff who shared all those experiences of the late 1960's with me but who, unlike me, returned to Wales and has lived there ever since.
Over the intervening years we have stayed in close touch and so it was natural I suppose that I spent the first days of my new existence back in Wales. It gave me the opportunity to revisit 'the land of my fathers' parts of which I had not seen since my childhood and adolescence. Although I have been back to Wales many time since,my experience of it has been limited because of personal obligations.This trip,because I am now free to go where I want, allowed me the chance to return to places I have not seen since my youth.
Jeff lives in the beautiful Vale of Glamorgan and so we began with a visit to Porthcawl, a small seaside town on the coast of the Bristol Channel with wonderful views across the sea to Somerset and North Devon.I hadn't been to Porthcawl for nearly fifty years. In the 60's Porthcawl and Tenby were the places to spend Bank Holidays for kids exiled to the far west and anxious to experience what our luckier (or so we thought at the time) contemporaries seemed to be enjoying in the more 'happening' resorts of southern England.This was of course, the era of 'the mods and rockers'. I don't think Porthcawl experienced the same kind of thing that occurred in Margate or Brighton. I do remember one holiday weekend however when I was tossed over a hedge into someone's garden by a group of 'valley boy rockers' who were obviously not impressed by the way my friends and I were dressed!
Jeff drove me to Rest Bay, the site of the Treco Bay caravan park which was once the biggest of its kind in Europe and where I spent a week in August 1965.Seeing it again all these years later,I was struck by how little it has really changed in the intervening years. It looks neater now,the serried rows of dowdy caravans have gone and have been replaced by neat mobile homes each with its own little picket fence around it but it is essentially the same, mass holiday accommodation for the masses.The fifties and sixties were an era when a caravan holiday in Porthcawl marked the highlight of the year for many miners' families from the Rhondda and the other South Wales mining valleys.They were hard, resiliant people used to the toil,danger and sheer drudgery of life in the small mining communities which existed then. A week or two in Porthcawl, at the seaside, must have seemed like heaven to them.Standing at the point overlooking the stony beach and the stormy channel,I was instantly transported back to the week I spent there with my parents. As a sixteen year old, I tried to spend as little time as possible with them and hung out instead with a group of boys and girls who were obviously experiencing the same kind of teenage existential angst as I was.
It's funny how, when viewed across the expanse of time, the past seems a curious place, strangely,yearningly familiar,yet at the same time has few real points of contact with your current existence or your existence over the years since, although you feel yourself to be essentially still that same person. L.P Hartley in his novel 'the Go Between' sums this up most succinctly in the opening line, ' The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.'
Our next stop took us deeper into the Vale and inn a past even more remote than the 1960s; to Ewenny and Ogmore.
The day ended with a welcome pint of real ale at the 15th century Prince of Wales Inn at Kenfig. Once the town hall, the inn is quirky and ancient, the sole remaining building of the medieval town of Kenfig which disappeared beneath the sand dunes which form the foreshore west of Porthcawl : but that's another story for another day.
mardi 8 mai 2012
Philippines (3) the fishing trip
Tom and I both like fishing.I'm really the angler in the family,he's into diving and likes to get in with the fish.Since I had the travel rod with me ( it had already caused me enough problems getting it here) I intended to use it. However, the shallow reef in front of the resort extended for several hundred metres before dropping off into the deep blue water beyond and it would be impossible to cast a line out that distance.The answer was therefore to get hold of a boat to take us out there.I asked Yves,our host, if he could arrange a fishing trip with one of the local fisherman we saw fishing off the reef everyday.He agreed to ask one of his neighbours to take us out into the deeper water.
The day arrived.We were to meet our fisherman at the little cove in front of our bungalow.The time was set for 10am.Having heard from friends who know the Philippines well that things are not as simple there as they first appear,I was not surprised when the fisherman didn't arrive on time.Finally, after an hour's wait in the hot sun, the guy finally arrived at 11. with a small outrigger canoe which looked as if it had seen better days. We inspected the boat and decided that since the wind was freshening and the sea beyond the reef was becoming decidedly choppy,we asked our new friend if he could get hold of a slightly larger,more seaworthy craft.He looked at us quizzically but finally admitted that he had a newer, bigger boat further up the beach.He agreed to return with it within the hour.
We waited again in the hot sun and an hour or so later he reappeared paddling a newer, freshly painted canoe but which was no bigger than the first!
Tom is solidly built,muscular, a sportsman and I weigh around 80kgs.The little fisherman was slightly built weighing no more than 60kgs. The boat was perfectly suited to his slight build and weight but with our combined weight of over 200kgs it was obvious that the outrigger would struggle to get us out into the deeper water.
Apprehensively, Tom and I settled ourselves on the canoe. I say 'on' because although our little friend sat himself neatly in the bow,we couldn't because it was too narrow for us to fit ourselves inside; it was so narrow. The little guy obviously saw the problem and produced two short planks which he placed across the gunnels.They were meant for us to sit on!
The trip out over the reef was uncomfortable as the little canoe headed into the surf breaking over the edge of it further out. But it was nowhere near as uncomfortable as it got when we approached the deeper water beyond it. The reef began to fall away and the sea bed began to disappear into the deep blue depths.The wind started to pick up too as we left the lee of the shore encouraging the bigger waves to break over the gunnels and bow.As I've said, Tom is a diver and used to going out to sea in boats but it was obvious that even he was now getting jittery.It was becoming obvious now that within several minutes we would be swamped by the bigger waves and so we signalled to our friendly fisherman that we wanted to go back in before we all ended up in the water.
And so we never got to test the fishing potential of the Philippines.Paying the fisherman, or rather his mother who was waiting for us when we got back the 300 pesos we had agreed upon and adding a tip of another 100 for his trouble we returned to the bar for a beer.
Later, I told Yves of our experience and he was obviously disappointed for us but he didn't seem surprised. He explained that the locals were not used to taking visitors out fishing in their boats.They fish alone, often miles offshore in their small canoes which are perfectly suited to their small stature and slight frames.I suggested that there seemed to be a great potential for them to supplement their meagre incomes by taking visitors fishing, particularly the Japanese and Chinese who are coming to the Philippines in increasing numbers these days.All that is needed are slightly bigger boats. With a bucket of bait provided, they could expect to triple at least their weekly income.Yves agreed but told me although he had suggested this to them, they seemed happier with their present lifestyle. Reluctantly, I had to agree.The people who live in their small bamboo and palm huts around the resort with their fruit trees and neatly planted vegetable gardens and chickens and pigs seem happy with their lot. Investing in bigger boats seemed to them to be an unnecessary expenditure I suppose.Yves suggested that an enterprising European with a pension which would allow him to live like a prince might find it a great business opportunity.I'm still tempted!
After our abortive trip,Tom and I decided to visit some caves nearby and at least he got to swim in the dark underground pool and I found another species of bird, the Swiftlet which nested there in some numbers.
The next day we returned to Cebu and on to Hong Kong.Tom to work and me to continue my Asian experience.We got up at 5am after a fitful night's sleep and met Yves on his veranda for coffee. He took us back across the inlet and dropped us at the pier in Tagbilaran.After a quick farewell and the formalities in the
booking office we boarded the catamaran and were soon speeding westwards to Cebu.
The Philippines was a wonderful experience, the resort, the friendly people and the very welcome sunshine made this trip memorable.One day I shall return.
The Philippines (2) Drongos, tarsiers and a bloody drink!
Dawn breaks at 5.45 next morning Tom's still asleep and so I slip out with my binoculars and my 'Birds of the Philippines' in an attempt to begin my Philippine list.My first bird is a little Pacific Swallow, a lone bird gliding through the palms.I suspect that it's hunting insects as the rising sun warms the thatch on the bungalows. Obviously, the proverbial 'early bird'. A few minutes later it's joined by several others.The next bird announces itself with cat-like purring and harsh metallic squeaks,it's a Spangled Drongo or rather a pair of Drongos. I've seen them before though in Australia and so it's not 'a lifer', in birder jargon, for me. Later I do get 'a lifer', a Chestnut Munia in the frangipani tree in front of the veranda where we breakfast.I know however that my bird watching will be limited because Tom is not a birder, it's not one of my passions that he has inherited. He's more of a city boy.Raised in Paris, he is more at home in the bustle and bright lights of the city.His passion is football and he prefers PSG (Paris St.Germain F.C.) to tramping around the bush looking for birds and so the next day we book a day tour around the Island of Bohol in a
four wheel drive vehicle with our own driver.We share the trip with Steve and Tania. They teach English in Taiwan, are very widely travelled, interesting companions and great people to be with.The tour takes up the whole day and luckily the vehicle is air-conditioned because it's very hot and the humidity is high.
Our driver takes us first to a tarsier sanctuary.The tarsier is the world's second smallest primate and indigenous to this area of the Philippines.Initially, we are a little apprehensive because we've heard that some of the so called 'sanctuaries' are little more than squalid little zoos where the tarsiers are kept in cages.No need to worry though, this one is large and comprises an area of tropical forest where the little animals live free and are allowed to roam within the sanctuary.We are guided through it by young experienced Philippino guides who are knowledgeable about the tarsiers and the other animals and birds which live in the reserve.It's good to see an initiative which gives the local youngsters work and looks after the environment as well.Next it's on to the Chocolate Hills,strange, pyramid-like limestone hills formed over the millenia by the action of water when this area was a shallow sea and after by erosion. Signs everywhere inform us that this is 'a gun-free zone' and advise visitors to check in their firearms before entering the area. A few days later find the same signs and security checkpoints in a shopping mall in Tagbilaran. The Philippinos are very vigilant because unfortunately terrorism and gun crime is an ever present threat.
On top of one of the hills we are lucky enough to see a pair of Brahminy Kites quartering the rice fields below us. No, it wasn't a 'lifer' for me either but always a beautiful bird to watch nevertheless. The last one I saw was on Fraser Island in Queensland. It always amazes me that some species of birds are so widely distributed whilst others are so localised.
The day is long and we visit a good number of sites but one in particular merits a particular mention.On our way back to Panglao we stop at a statue alongside the ocean which commemorates a pact made between an early Spanish explorer and a local chieftain in 1565. Miguel Lopez de Legazpi like, his fellow 16th centuary compatriots in the Americas,arrived in Bohol in search of gold and spices.In order to ensure he was not attacked by the indigenous peoples, he made a pact with a local chieftain, Dato Sikatuno.The pact was sealed in blood-the two men apparently drank each other's! The ceremony is know as the Sandingo (one blood ceremony' and is celebrated in the Tagbilaran region every year. The large statue comprising several figures,priests, soldiers and local tribal dignitaries depicts the ceremony on the outskirts of the city.Ironically, in recent years historical research has suggested that it took place further along the coast but the residents of Tagbilaran insist that theirs is the authentic site and are naturally anxious it remains so.
As we drive back through the mangrove swamps and jungle along the coast I reflect that I am the only member of my family to have been in the Philippines since my uncle served there with the Royal Navy supporting the liberating American forces in 1945. Later he went on to Japan and helped to secure the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the atom bombs had been dropped.Needless to say he was never the same afterwards.
dimanche 6 mai 2012
The Philippines (1) : Travel problems and flying fish
The Philippines (1) : Travel problems and flying fish.
An early morning flight out of Hong Kong en route for Panglao Island in the Philippines with my son,Tom.Tom impresses me with the ease of access to Hong Kong International Airport from the city centre but I suspect he is also trying to allay the worries which always beset me before flying out somewhere new. I'm new to this game.Previously, long haul flights were associated with family holidays.This is different. Tom is used to this constant 'déplacement', he flies regularly all over Asia and the rest of the world. It's not a fear of flying, more an anxiety about getting to the airport and being checked in on time.I'm the kind of individual who gets to the departure lounge at least an hour and a half before boarding begins.
Fortunately, it is easy.We check in our luggage at the city check-in and take the MTR direct to the airport.The journey is relaxing and pleasant and so we arrive at the airport feeling pretty chilled out.All goes well until we approach the security check.An officious young lady spots my travel fishing rod case and asks, 'A picture?' I reply, smiling 'No, just a fishing rod in six short pieces.'. It appears that she suspects the case is too long for hand luggage even though it's less than a metre in length and is shorter than some passengers' hold-alls. I return to check- in and eventually manage to check it into the hold but by the time I get back to passport and security check, it's getting perilously close to boarding time. I'm lecturing Tom on the importance of giving yourself a reasonable time margin to accommodate difficulties such as this.
Hong Kong International is immense and it's a bit of a sprint along the seemingly endless motorised walkways towards the distant boarding gate and the Philippines Airlines flight to Manilla.
The flight leaves on time, is pleasant and we are served immediately with a breakfast of poached milkfish, scrambled egg, mushrooms and rice (this clearly isn't Ryanair!) and we touch down smoothly in Manilla,on time, one hour and thirty minutes later.
It's very hot and humid,quite different from from the current cool humidity of Hong Kong as we exit Arrivals and head into the transit lounge. And then another glitch,Security now decides my 20HK$ mini-brolly, bought in case of tropical rainstorms,constitutes a security threat and must also join my fishing rod case in the hold .Tom volunteers to return to check-in with the offending article.No worries, we have a hour before our connecting flight to Cebu.He returns and we we get a beer and relax. Another learning curve.I won't forget this for the forthcoming trip to Central America. All the fishing gear goes into the cargo hold from the outset or,more drastically, I don't take any and buy or hire it when get there.I bet Hemingway never had this problem. The connecting flight to Cebu is thirty minutes late but that's O.K., we have another cold beer and once in the air the views we get as we fly over island after island, atoll after atoll is enchanting.
We have to take a boat from Cebu to Bohol Island and when we land we have 45 minutes only to cross the city to the dock from where the catamaran leaves.We have to pick up some Philippino pesos before we leave the airport because our Rough Guide informs us that there isn't an ATM on Panglao Island, our final destination. The Travel Gremlin strikes again! The ATM at Arrivals doesn't seem to have any money in it. We have some spare pesos and can stop off in Tagbilaran, the capital of Bohol before we reach Panglao. Priority, get a taxi and get to the dock in time.
Tom flags one down and gets in, he's travelling light and hops into the back seat with his little backpack. I go around to the opposite door to put my backpack and rod case on the back seat between us. As I'm doing this,the driver, apparently unaware that I haven't yet got into his taxi and not looking back to check, suddenly pulls away and runs over my foot with his rear wheel! It's got to be broken if not crushed but no, luckily there's no harm done except for an aching right foot.
We drive off, the driver mumbling apologies and me clutching my foot.The Cebu traffic is horrendous. Motorcyclists,cars,lorries and 'jeepnies' career around all seemingly being driven in opposite directions.I joke with Tom about the lack of health and safety in the Philippines as we pass lorries with up to ten people hanging off them.It helps to dissipate the tension we are both feeling as the minutes tick by .Our mood however becomes less flippant as we approach the docks and we pass by a shanty town with people living in empty containers and shacks built of corrugated zinc and cardboard. Dirty, poorly clad children play on the roadside,only feet away from the heavy traffic. The poverty hits hard, this is the first third world country I have ever been in. Tom insists I refer to it as ' a developing country'. That implies I suppose that there is hope that the Philippines will eventually join the ranks of other developing nations in the region.
Eventually, we get to Pier 1 and the ticket office.There are scores of people queuing for tickets and after what seems like an eternity we get ours we head down the gangway. The catamaran is heaving with people going to or returning to Bohol. Our destination is Tagbilaran, the capital of Bohol and it takes another 2hours to get there across a sea as blue as ink and with flying fish following in the wake of our boat.Before we leave
a recorded prayer is broadcast over the public address system, the Philippinos are a very devout people whatever their religious persuasion.I don't personally find it very reassuring as memories of previous ferry disasters spring to mind.
It's so hot and stuffy in the cabin as the heat and the humidity increase.They are also playing a sentimental American movie on the big central screen and so I wander outside to the stern deck where several men are standing smoking.There's an English guy from Sussex who's a diver and touring the islands after losing his job in the U.K. and like me, is trying to escape a depressing European winter. He tells me he is intending to return to dive on Panglao in a few weeks' time but is going on to a more distant island first.
In the tropical dusk and with the sky turning a fiery red as the sun sets we arrive in Tagbilaran which we discover is much smaller than Cebu.In fact it's quite a small town on the western edge of Bohol Island and just across the inlet from Panglao and our resort.
The journey has been long and eventful and sometimes frustrating but I had been warned by friends in Hong Kong that this is often the case.Across the water, Panglao looks jungley and mysterious and can't wait to get there.
We are picked up at the pier by Yves, a Swiss ex-pat and the owner of the Cliffview Resort at Tagnan on Panglao where we're going to spend the next week.Yves has spent the last fifty years,on and off, in S.E Asia and has worked as a war correspondent during the Vietnam War and the Khmer Rouge era in Cambodia, a restaurant chain owner and a hotelier.In his current existence he has married a Philippino lady and has two small children in his autumn years.He's built a paradise in Panglao and has constructed seven or eight bungalows of bamboo and palm thatch on the ocean's edge with sublime views across straits to Cebu on the horizon. Coconut palms, banana plants and frangipani trees adorn the grounds of his resort and shade the bungalows from the hot sun.
We are served dinner on the veranda of his longhouse which overlooks the sea.There are several other guests and we meet Steve and Tania, EFL teachers from Taiwan and intrepid travellers.We swap travel stories and experiences as the humid tropical darkness envelopes us.The only lights we can see come from the fishing boats out in the straits.
Finally it's time to get our heads down but before, Tom makes me check under our beds for snakes and spiders.It becomes a nightly ritual during our stay.
An early morning flight out of Hong Kong en route for Panglao Island in the Philippines with my son,Tom.Tom impresses me with the ease of access to Hong Kong International Airport from the city centre but I suspect he is also trying to allay the worries which always beset me before flying out somewhere new. I'm new to this game.Previously, long haul flights were associated with family holidays.This is different. Tom is used to this constant 'déplacement', he flies regularly all over Asia and the rest of the world. It's not a fear of flying, more an anxiety about getting to the airport and being checked in on time.I'm the kind of individual who gets to the departure lounge at least an hour and a half before boarding begins.
Fortunately, it is easy.We check in our luggage at the city check-in and take the MTR direct to the airport.The journey is relaxing and pleasant and so we arrive at the airport feeling pretty chilled out.All goes well until we approach the security check.An officious young lady spots my travel fishing rod case and asks, 'A picture?' I reply, smiling 'No, just a fishing rod in six short pieces.'. It appears that she suspects the case is too long for hand luggage even though it's less than a metre in length and is shorter than some passengers' hold-alls. I return to check- in and eventually manage to check it into the hold but by the time I get back to passport and security check, it's getting perilously close to boarding time. I'm lecturing Tom on the importance of giving yourself a reasonable time margin to accommodate difficulties such as this.
Hong Kong International is immense and it's a bit of a sprint along the seemingly endless motorised walkways towards the distant boarding gate and the Philippines Airlines flight to Manilla.
The flight leaves on time, is pleasant and we are served immediately with a breakfast of poached milkfish, scrambled egg, mushrooms and rice (this clearly isn't Ryanair!) and we touch down smoothly in Manilla,on time, one hour and thirty minutes later.
It's very hot and humid,quite different from from the current cool humidity of Hong Kong as we exit Arrivals and head into the transit lounge. And then another glitch,Security now decides my 20HK$ mini-brolly, bought in case of tropical rainstorms,constitutes a security threat and must also join my fishing rod case in the hold .Tom volunteers to return to check-in with the offending article.No worries, we have a hour before our connecting flight to Cebu.He returns and we we get a beer and relax. Another learning curve.I won't forget this for the forthcoming trip to Central America. All the fishing gear goes into the cargo hold from the outset or,more drastically, I don't take any and buy or hire it when get there.I bet Hemingway never had this problem. The connecting flight to Cebu is thirty minutes late but that's O.K., we have another cold beer and once in the air the views we get as we fly over island after island, atoll after atoll is enchanting.
We have to take a boat from Cebu to Bohol Island and when we land we have 45 minutes only to cross the city to the dock from where the catamaran leaves.We have to pick up some Philippino pesos before we leave the airport because our Rough Guide informs us that there isn't an ATM on Panglao Island, our final destination. The Travel Gremlin strikes again! The ATM at Arrivals doesn't seem to have any money in it. We have some spare pesos and can stop off in Tagbilaran, the capital of Bohol before we reach Panglao. Priority, get a taxi and get to the dock in time.
Tom flags one down and gets in, he's travelling light and hops into the back seat with his little backpack. I go around to the opposite door to put my backpack and rod case on the back seat between us. As I'm doing this,the driver, apparently unaware that I haven't yet got into his taxi and not looking back to check, suddenly pulls away and runs over my foot with his rear wheel! It's got to be broken if not crushed but no, luckily there's no harm done except for an aching right foot.
We drive off, the driver mumbling apologies and me clutching my foot.The Cebu traffic is horrendous. Motorcyclists,cars,lorries and 'jeepnies' career around all seemingly being driven in opposite directions.I joke with Tom about the lack of health and safety in the Philippines as we pass lorries with up to ten people hanging off them.It helps to dissipate the tension we are both feeling as the minutes tick by .Our mood however becomes less flippant as we approach the docks and we pass by a shanty town with people living in empty containers and shacks built of corrugated zinc and cardboard. Dirty, poorly clad children play on the roadside,only feet away from the heavy traffic. The poverty hits hard, this is the first third world country I have ever been in. Tom insists I refer to it as ' a developing country'. That implies I suppose that there is hope that the Philippines will eventually join the ranks of other developing nations in the region.
Eventually, we get to Pier 1 and the ticket office.There are scores of people queuing for tickets and after what seems like an eternity we get ours we head down the gangway. The catamaran is heaving with people going to or returning to Bohol. Our destination is Tagbilaran, the capital of Bohol and it takes another 2hours to get there across a sea as blue as ink and with flying fish following in the wake of our boat.Before we leave
a recorded prayer is broadcast over the public address system, the Philippinos are a very devout people whatever their religious persuasion.I don't personally find it very reassuring as memories of previous ferry disasters spring to mind.
It's so hot and stuffy in the cabin as the heat and the humidity increase.They are also playing a sentimental American movie on the big central screen and so I wander outside to the stern deck where several men are standing smoking.There's an English guy from Sussex who's a diver and touring the islands after losing his job in the U.K. and like me, is trying to escape a depressing European winter. He tells me he is intending to return to dive on Panglao in a few weeks' time but is going on to a more distant island first.
In the tropical dusk and with the sky turning a fiery red as the sun sets we arrive in Tagbilaran which we discover is much smaller than Cebu.In fact it's quite a small town on the western edge of Bohol Island and just across the inlet from Panglao and our resort.
The journey has been long and eventful and sometimes frustrating but I had been warned by friends in Hong Kong that this is often the case.Across the water, Panglao looks jungley and mysterious and can't wait to get there.
We are picked up at the pier by Yves, a Swiss ex-pat and the owner of the Cliffview Resort at Tagnan on Panglao where we're going to spend the next week.Yves has spent the last fifty years,on and off, in S.E Asia and has worked as a war correspondent during the Vietnam War and the Khmer Rouge era in Cambodia, a restaurant chain owner and a hotelier.In his current existence he has married a Philippino lady and has two small children in his autumn years.He's built a paradise in Panglao and has constructed seven or eight bungalows of bamboo and palm thatch on the ocean's edge with sublime views across straits to Cebu on the horizon. Coconut palms, banana plants and frangipani trees adorn the grounds of his resort and shade the bungalows from the hot sun.
We are served dinner on the veranda of his longhouse which overlooks the sea.There are several other guests and we meet Steve and Tania, EFL teachers from Taiwan and intrepid travellers.We swap travel stories and experiences as the humid tropical darkness envelopes us.The only lights we can see come from the fishing boats out in the straits.
Finally it's time to get our heads down but before, Tom makes me check under our beds for snakes and spiders.It becomes a nightly ritual during our stay.
vendredi 20 avril 2012
A Friday evening in Hong Kong.
Hong Kong feels like a safe, friendly place,one of those cities I feel instantly at home in and believe me, I'm no city lover.
I'm sitting outside a street bar on Queen's Road East drinking a mojito (v. Hemingway!) and watching early evening Hong Kong rolling by before my eyes like waves on a tide of humanity. It's a cliché but that's what it is, a human sea.This city is vibrant and thronging.'Throngs' seems to describe perfectly the hundreds, thousands of people constantly on the move, on foot, in taxis, cars, buses and trams.
It's early Friday evening, the end of the working week for most of Hong Kong's inhabitants and already the sub-tropical dusk is settling in. Even the ubiquitous crested bulbuls and black collared starlings have ceased their screeching and whistling and have flown off to roost in the surrounding parks and public gardens. It's not been a memorable day weather-wise.Once again, after three of four days of warm, pleasant sunshine, the anticyclonic murk has enveloped the city. Driven down from the north of China by the north-western monsoon winds it has been augmented,some say,by the industrial pollution from the factories in the southern Chinese provinces adjacent.
The buses and the MTR (Mass Transit Railway) deposit their human cargo. Businessmen, office workers and pretty Chinese shop-girls, elegant and so delicately featured that they resemble dolls, surge towards me and onwards like an incoming tide. Individuals stop and linger for a drink, it seems like a ritual, before taking the bus or a taxi back to their homes in the outlying suburbs.They must live, I imagine, in the myriad apartment blocks and skyscrapers which line the city streets and jostle the shoreline of the harbour creating the vast canyons of concrete and steel which characterise this seething,amazing city. Hong Kong is a culture shock as well as a shock to the senses. Not in the same way as some Asian cities where there is a dramatic contrast between wealth and poverty but in that the sights and scenes are so unfamiliar.The contrast perhaps lies in the juxtaposition of the ultra-modern and the older,more traditional way of life which seems to continue to exist despite the perpetual modernisation. Also perhaps in the sense that, as Europeans, we find it difficult to understand how so many people can live in such close proximity with seemingly so little personal conflict or annoyance.Everyone seems at ease, purposeful and positive. People smile, chat and relax even if only for a short while on their way to wherever they are headed.
In Hong Kong tables and chairs in front of street bars, street restaurants and cafeteria terraces are, I'm told, considered by law as public areas and as such anyone has the right to sit down at a table and stay for as long as they wish without obligation to buy a drink or meal. One often finds this on Sundays when the city's thousands of Philippino maids and home-helps have their day off and congregate to spend the day together. They find a place to meet which suits them, meet up and occupy it for the day.Picnics are produced and card and board games begin.
In front of me tonight the three furthest tables are occupied by little old ladies knitting and chatting and street workers consuming plastic tubs of steaming noodles from street takeaways. A fishmonger arrives complete in white apron and white wellies.He's fresh from Wan Chai fish market where he guts and cleans the fish. It's his cigarette break and he settles in the chair next to them and lights up. Seemingly oblivious to his presence, his blood spattered apron and boots and his smoke they continue to knit and chat unperturbed.
Wan Chai market is a wonderful place.It takes a little getting used to at first but once you're accustomed to the noise, bustle and smells it's a total sensory experience.Row after tightly packed row of stalls offer the discerning customer all manner of exotic Chinese vegetables from pak choi to water chestnuts and Chinese mushrooms.It's a living stir fry! Fruit is everywhere.Oranges,apples and pears,limes,rambutans, lichees, mangoes and the cloying, cheesy smelling durians are snapped up by the eager,choosy shoppers.
The fish stalls exhibit fish, molluscs and crustaceans and even the sad eyed, long necked turtles, all the fruits of the New Territories fish farms and the South China Sea.The fish are so fresh that they are still alive.When she has selected her fish,the discerning housewife watches her purchase dispatched, eviscerated and filleted. A Chinese friend tells me that unless the fish is killed before her she does not consider it to be fresh.She cannot understand why some people, presumably Europeans, seem to prefer to buy fish which are already dead. Perhaps my fishmonger needs a cigarette to steady his nerves.
The side streets next to the market are thronged with shoppers and stalls.It's the eve of Chinese New Year and the stalls are decked out in red and gold talismen and trinkets promising good luck in the coming Year of the Dragon.My friend Mark, who has lived in Hong Kong for the past thirty years,tells me that the birth rate will rise dramatically this year because babies born in the Year of the Dragon will be lucky in life.
Next a group of students (or are they young office workers?) arrives at the table next to me.They sit down and begin an animated discussion until they are finally persuaded by a pretty,overworked waitress to buy a drink. It's getting late now and slowly but steadily a few Europeans and Australians drift in for the post work 'swill'.Judging from the number of beers they consume they seem to be here for the long haul. It too seems like a Friday night ritual.
'All human life is here', a newspaper slogan from my long gone youth comes back to me unbidden.Perhaps this is true too of this vibrant, colourful city where Cantonese and Mandarin Chinese,Philippinos, Asians of every nationality, Australians and Europeans seem to work, socialise and co-exist happily together in the post-handover Hong Kong where the patronage of the New China seems to offer relative economic and material prosperity to the majority of its citizens.
I'm sitting outside a street bar on Queen's Road East drinking a mojito (v. Hemingway!) and watching early evening Hong Kong rolling by before my eyes like waves on a tide of humanity. It's a cliché but that's what it is, a human sea.This city is vibrant and thronging.'Throngs' seems to describe perfectly the hundreds, thousands of people constantly on the move, on foot, in taxis, cars, buses and trams.
It's early Friday evening, the end of the working week for most of Hong Kong's inhabitants and already the sub-tropical dusk is settling in. Even the ubiquitous crested bulbuls and black collared starlings have ceased their screeching and whistling and have flown off to roost in the surrounding parks and public gardens. It's not been a memorable day weather-wise.Once again, after three of four days of warm, pleasant sunshine, the anticyclonic murk has enveloped the city. Driven down from the north of China by the north-western monsoon winds it has been augmented,some say,by the industrial pollution from the factories in the southern Chinese provinces adjacent.
The buses and the MTR (Mass Transit Railway) deposit their human cargo. Businessmen, office workers and pretty Chinese shop-girls, elegant and so delicately featured that they resemble dolls, surge towards me and onwards like an incoming tide. Individuals stop and linger for a drink, it seems like a ritual, before taking the bus or a taxi back to their homes in the outlying suburbs.They must live, I imagine, in the myriad apartment blocks and skyscrapers which line the city streets and jostle the shoreline of the harbour creating the vast canyons of concrete and steel which characterise this seething,amazing city. Hong Kong is a culture shock as well as a shock to the senses. Not in the same way as some Asian cities where there is a dramatic contrast between wealth and poverty but in that the sights and scenes are so unfamiliar.The contrast perhaps lies in the juxtaposition of the ultra-modern and the older,more traditional way of life which seems to continue to exist despite the perpetual modernisation. Also perhaps in the sense that, as Europeans, we find it difficult to understand how so many people can live in such close proximity with seemingly so little personal conflict or annoyance.Everyone seems at ease, purposeful and positive. People smile, chat and relax even if only for a short while on their way to wherever they are headed.
In Hong Kong tables and chairs in front of street bars, street restaurants and cafeteria terraces are, I'm told, considered by law as public areas and as such anyone has the right to sit down at a table and stay for as long as they wish without obligation to buy a drink or meal. One often finds this on Sundays when the city's thousands of Philippino maids and home-helps have their day off and congregate to spend the day together. They find a place to meet which suits them, meet up and occupy it for the day.Picnics are produced and card and board games begin.
In front of me tonight the three furthest tables are occupied by little old ladies knitting and chatting and street workers consuming plastic tubs of steaming noodles from street takeaways. A fishmonger arrives complete in white apron and white wellies.He's fresh from Wan Chai fish market where he guts and cleans the fish. It's his cigarette break and he settles in the chair next to them and lights up. Seemingly oblivious to his presence, his blood spattered apron and boots and his smoke they continue to knit and chat unperturbed.
Wan Chai market is a wonderful place.It takes a little getting used to at first but once you're accustomed to the noise, bustle and smells it's a total sensory experience.Row after tightly packed row of stalls offer the discerning customer all manner of exotic Chinese vegetables from pak choi to water chestnuts and Chinese mushrooms.It's a living stir fry! Fruit is everywhere.Oranges,apples and pears,limes,rambutans, lichees, mangoes and the cloying, cheesy smelling durians are snapped up by the eager,choosy shoppers.
The fish stalls exhibit fish, molluscs and crustaceans and even the sad eyed, long necked turtles, all the fruits of the New Territories fish farms and the South China Sea.The fish are so fresh that they are still alive.When she has selected her fish,the discerning housewife watches her purchase dispatched, eviscerated and filleted. A Chinese friend tells me that unless the fish is killed before her she does not consider it to be fresh.She cannot understand why some people, presumably Europeans, seem to prefer to buy fish which are already dead. Perhaps my fishmonger needs a cigarette to steady his nerves.
The side streets next to the market are thronged with shoppers and stalls.It's the eve of Chinese New Year and the stalls are decked out in red and gold talismen and trinkets promising good luck in the coming Year of the Dragon.My friend Mark, who has lived in Hong Kong for the past thirty years,tells me that the birth rate will rise dramatically this year because babies born in the Year of the Dragon will be lucky in life.
Next a group of students (or are they young office workers?) arrives at the table next to me.They sit down and begin an animated discussion until they are finally persuaded by a pretty,overworked waitress to buy a drink. It's getting late now and slowly but steadily a few Europeans and Australians drift in for the post work 'swill'.Judging from the number of beers they consume they seem to be here for the long haul. It too seems like a Friday night ritual.
'All human life is here', a newspaper slogan from my long gone youth comes back to me unbidden.Perhaps this is true too of this vibrant, colourful city where Cantonese and Mandarin Chinese,Philippinos, Asians of every nationality, Australians and Europeans seem to work, socialise and co-exist happily together in the post-handover Hong Kong where the patronage of the New China seems to offer relative economic and material prosperity to the majority of its citizens.
jeudi 19 avril 2012
A new direction
I'm somewhere over eastern Europe,cruising in a Cathay Pacific Boeing at 31,000 feet and heading towards Prague. The cloud cover is almost total and the few breaks in it reveal that the landmass beneath us is snow covered.
It's early January and several months since my simple life in south western France changed forever.I'm beginning a journey that will take me three months and to places as far apart as Hong Kong, the Philippines,South Wales, Paris and Andalucia.
For now, the western edges of Europe are enjoying are enjoying mild, unseasonal weather.Claude, my neighbour in our little French village, mails me, 'C'est déja le printemps,on est content'. The skies for those who live beneath the giant plane must be constantly grey with the threat of more snow, 'encore la grisaille' as the French say when at home the short grey winter days deprive us of the sunshine and the incredible luminosity that normally characterises our part of the world for the major part of the year.
The clouds below us resemble a strange land, a magical land of snow covered hills, valleys and plains which stretches away in the distance. No cloud breaks now, only that strange cloud land as we leave Prague unseen somewhere below us and head towards Warsaw.
Steady at 31,000 feet.I wonder, do airline pilots ever get the urge to take their aircraft higher? Do they say to themselves, 'Just to see what she can do?' To climb towards the very edge of space?' It's a stupid thought. But he's just done it!Thirty four thousand feet the little screen on the back of the seat in front tells me. perhaps he's read my thoughts.Echoes of 'the Intention Experiment'?
The whole of eastern Europe must have had a grey,snowy day. And, 'as the sun sinks slowly in the west' we head towards Minsk and then Moscow.it's -57°C outside at this height the little screen tells me and it can't be my warmer on the ground I imagine!
I can't sleep My watch tells me it's 6 pm Paris time. I haven't reset it to Hong Kong time, an action I shall regret deeply later. We are now passing over Russia and heading towards Astrakhan, a name I dimly recollect from my childhood. My mother once owned a coat which possessed a collar of the same name and of which she was intensely proud. Funny how these little thoughts come back in moments like these.
I stretch my legs after scrambling over the two young French lovers in the seats next to me, asleep, entwined in each other's arms since we left Paris, and make my way aft to the toilets. In the queue I meet a middle aged Frenchman, who introduces himself as Jacques, an ex-pat who lives in Cebu in the Philippines and runs an import/export business, has a Philippino wife, two young children and enjoys 'la peche sousmarine' in his spare time. He is into 'tutoying' immediately. The French do not normally lapse into using the familiar 'tu' form of address unless they know you well or are a workmate or team mate. Perhaps he recognises me as a kindred spirit or a man of the world like him and is paying me this compliment of mateiness.
Whilst we are waiting for the toilet to become available he regales me with the tale of a giant grouper he speared last year, 'un vrai gros', real beauty, a fish he had been trying to get for years he tells me without success and then apparently, one day not so long ago he finally succeeded. 'Et tu sais,' he says 'maintenant à chaque fois que j'y plonge ce poisson me manque énormément. Il était comme un ami à moi.C'est bizarre!' I enter the loo slightly puzzled.
We are now over Bukhara and heading towards places whose names seem to be from another planet, Almaty,Karagandar, and Tashkent before entering deepest Asia and the Sino-Tibetan plateau. The skies are clearing and the sun is rising. But it's only 7pm Paris time and I feel as if another day is beginning and I haven't slept a wink, something I shall regret later when we land in Hong Kong and I have another full day to get through.
It's early January and several months since my simple life in south western France changed forever.I'm beginning a journey that will take me three months and to places as far apart as Hong Kong, the Philippines,South Wales, Paris and Andalucia.
For now, the western edges of Europe are enjoying are enjoying mild, unseasonal weather.Claude, my neighbour in our little French village, mails me, 'C'est déja le printemps,on est content'. The skies for those who live beneath the giant plane must be constantly grey with the threat of more snow, 'encore la grisaille' as the French say when at home the short grey winter days deprive us of the sunshine and the incredible luminosity that normally characterises our part of the world for the major part of the year.
The clouds below us resemble a strange land, a magical land of snow covered hills, valleys and plains which stretches away in the distance. No cloud breaks now, only that strange cloud land as we leave Prague unseen somewhere below us and head towards Warsaw.
Steady at 31,000 feet.I wonder, do airline pilots ever get the urge to take their aircraft higher? Do they say to themselves, 'Just to see what she can do?' To climb towards the very edge of space?' It's a stupid thought. But he's just done it!Thirty four thousand feet the little screen on the back of the seat in front tells me. perhaps he's read my thoughts.Echoes of 'the Intention Experiment'?
The whole of eastern Europe must have had a grey,snowy day. And, 'as the sun sinks slowly in the west' we head towards Minsk and then Moscow.it's -57°C outside at this height the little screen tells me and it can't be my warmer on the ground I imagine!
I can't sleep My watch tells me it's 6 pm Paris time. I haven't reset it to Hong Kong time, an action I shall regret deeply later. We are now passing over Russia and heading towards Astrakhan, a name I dimly recollect from my childhood. My mother once owned a coat which possessed a collar of the same name and of which she was intensely proud. Funny how these little thoughts come back in moments like these.
I stretch my legs after scrambling over the two young French lovers in the seats next to me, asleep, entwined in each other's arms since we left Paris, and make my way aft to the toilets. In the queue I meet a middle aged Frenchman, who introduces himself as Jacques, an ex-pat who lives in Cebu in the Philippines and runs an import/export business, has a Philippino wife, two young children and enjoys 'la peche sousmarine' in his spare time. He is into 'tutoying' immediately. The French do not normally lapse into using the familiar 'tu' form of address unless they know you well or are a workmate or team mate. Perhaps he recognises me as a kindred spirit or a man of the world like him and is paying me this compliment of mateiness.
Whilst we are waiting for the toilet to become available he regales me with the tale of a giant grouper he speared last year, 'un vrai gros', real beauty, a fish he had been trying to get for years he tells me without success and then apparently, one day not so long ago he finally succeeded. 'Et tu sais,' he says 'maintenant à chaque fois que j'y plonge ce poisson me manque énormément. Il était comme un ami à moi.C'est bizarre!' I enter the loo slightly puzzled.
We are now over Bukhara and heading towards places whose names seem to be from another planet, Almaty,Karagandar, and Tashkent before entering deepest Asia and the Sino-Tibetan plateau. The skies are clearing and the sun is rising. But it's only 7pm Paris time and I feel as if another day is beginning and I haven't slept a wink, something I shall regret later when we land in Hong Kong and I have another full day to get through.
samedi 3 mars 2012
Changing direction
When I began this blog last year I intended it to be a journal about events in a small village in southwestern France and the surrounding area with an emphasis on the local culture and history and especially on my hobbies of fishing and bird watching. For the last six months I have written nothing. Those who know me personally know the reason why I have not wanted to write anything. In addition, I have been constantly on the move throughout this period. I've therefore not had anything to say concerning what I set out to write about originally. However life changes and although I am now ready to write my blog again, the blog will change. I shall try to maintain the original flavour and the 'raison d'etre' but now it will include episodes from my travels and musings on the places I see and the people I meet. I hope you will continue to read and enjoy my blog in that spirit.
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