Middling England

Well, despite remaining in England, the weather did pick up a bit. I mean, there was torrential rain on Tuesday, a morning soaking on Thursday and some spits and spots in between, but there was also some blanket white cloud and slots of blue sky in between. I even dabbled with the idea of wearing shorts at one point but thought the better of it. Before leaving this arguably blessed isle for a few weeks of continental shenanigans there were a couple of travel sectors to immerse oneself with a cup of tea in more well-to-do parts of England – the downs and heaths and cathedral towns of Surrey, Sussex and Hampshire (all in one day!) and suburban niceties in Finchley N12 London.

Now if you want a nice town with a well-to-do air, a haphazard conglomeration of picturesque buildings and churches bordered by tinkling rivulets and Cafe Identikit Chainos, then the cathedral towns of Southern England are where it’s at. Basingstoke isn’t really one of them, but a very useful base from which to spend a few days with Dad and Sonia and venture out into the manicured wilds of the south. Such as Winchester, which is a place I like very much, and it was a rather pleasant and agreeable place for a Friday afternoon meander, enlivened by ice cream and a walk into the wetlands through which the transparent waters of the River Itchen lazily spread.

This has to be Dave Cameron’s Britain, where antiquated schoolboy uniforms intersperse with old majors and shooting clubs (those darn working classes are crossing my moat...load the barrels and unleash the hounds), and the closest thing to a riot is a non-linear queue for the Daily Mail. It spreads across through the crinkled bedsheet downs of Hampshire and Surrey and Sussex to other such well heeled places like Guildford and Farnham and Chichester. Despite not naturally being a conservative type myself, it’s really rather agreeable (if you can be rich and slightly intolerant of other foreign types).

Chichester is kind of like Winchester, just with a little less win and a bit more chi about the place. It also has a cathedral and a series of old buildings taken over by the likes of WHSmith and New Look. Mercifully it does have some shops which cannot be found in every other single high street in the UK, giving the place a bit more character and charm on a bustling Saturday morning. Plenty of places to eat too, including a number of food stalls offering sizzling off-cuts of meat placed at regular intervals in between buskers plying their variable trade. And giant baked potatoes, yum.

Like most British towns Chichester does have plenty of cloud but not too far away a sliver of blue sky lured me to direct Dad towards the Sussex coast and the retirement paradise of Selsey. Where, to be fair, the sun was out and summer briefly returned, but that was the sole highlight. It is hard seeing beaches and making inevitable comparisons to those wonderful sandy expanses in the antipodes. At least the British sands are enlivened by piers and machines for your tuppeny bits, but not in Selsey, with its one food van and smelly foreshore. But the sun was warming and welcome.

The drive back was significantly more charming, with the sun extending into the South Downs, passing through into Surrey and back on towards Hampshire. The next day, the sun did its best to hide once more, but it wasn’t all doom and gloom with the odd intermittent break back down in Surrey along the Devils Punchbowl. While I still don’t get the name – a little too dramatic for a series of cosy hillocks and heather downs – the punchbowl provided a very nice walk through forest and meadows and heath, with a few lookouts to boot. I always like lookouts, making a nice change from cathedrals. Even better when you are munching on a pork pie atop such a hillock.

Despite being all relatively tame and refined, there remain some wild critters around these parts. The lesser spotted small car for instance, and the lady chortle chortle, often found in the more common fourusby fouropianous. There were also some lizards of some type, that did not seem particular rare given their prevalence at another little heathy spot somewhere in Surrey. I am not naming where exactly so I can keep their presence protected, and not because I can’t remember or anything.

Changing tack somewhat, but equally secretive are underground nuclear bunkers don’t you think? I mean, you wouldn’t get one signposted or anything would you. Somewhere in deepest darkest Essex, the (now decommissioned) nuclear bunker was perfect quirkiness for a soggy day, a reminder of oddments and peculiarities encountered down under with Caroline and Jill, friends with whom I met both in the southern hemisphere, but with whom I now shared a northern hemisphere summer day on a depressing wet M25. The nuclear bunker was actually rather excellent – in part informative, scary, hilarious and, well, quirky. Just beware the realistic mannequins with dishevelled hair and no arms.

Elsewhere in Essex, where I don’t think a nuclear blast hit but can’t quite be sure, there was pub lunch with a scarily oily but quite delicious lasagne, random villages and more of the M25 and other salubrious roads. There were more pubs in Hertfordshire - if only a few of these hundreds of pubs could be lifted brick by brick and transported to Australia, along with the ales – and you know what happens when you mix alcohol with mannequins and the M25? No, well, I’ll tell you what, a trip to Asda like innit for some evening ‘mezze’ and container spotting. Yes, it really was a wild and wacky day out.

Most of the rest of the time in North London was spent fairly leisurely, revisiting shops and parks of Finchley with Melita and her little cute newbie, Orla, who I’m sure enjoyed the little walks out in the sometimes sunny weather as much as I did. A chance to indulge in people time more than spectacular and magnificent sights...although Finchley Tesco is possibly such a place. It got me thinking how wonderful everyone I see and visit is and how they make these trips possible – putting me up, feeding me, driving me around, trying to crack a smile on my face. It works, because just occasionally you may see me beaming.

Black Hole Sun

And so here we make it to quaint little England, arriving via a brief and random stopover in Munich for some Bratwurst and lederhosen. I arrived into London City airport and breezed through the various check points in seconds (they can smell the Pommie blood), finding a London seemingly ordered and awakening for another day selling shares and making millions. I had time to spare before my train down to Plymouth so, seeing it was turning into a rather pleasant day, I waited out in Hyde Park at Lancaster Gate to read the Metro, telling me what an awful, dreadful, dangerous and callous place Britain had become in the space of a few days. It seemed hard to comprehend in that sunny park shaded by regal horse chestnuts and accompanied by a quartet of sparkling fountains.

In fact, it was an even more preposterous notion upon entering Devon, which put on its best fluffy white clouds and green hills dotted with sheep and cows winding country lane and thatched cottage wondrousness. More viable in Plymouth perhaps, but even here things appeared to be calm and pleasant. Later on however, flames started to appear from a council estate and a large cacophony of noise swelled: Neil and Steve were lighting the BBQ and grandmothers and mothers and clucky women were cooing over babies. Here I was, finally showered from Hong Kong for my niece Brooke’s first birthday. Burnt snags are better the English way.

The next day and any sense of anarchy was far from the Devon-Cornwall border, though those gangs of fluffy white sheep hanging around the stile in their fleecy hoodies looked a bit suss. The weather was picture perfect for a jaunt on the picturesque Tamar Valley branch line to Calstock, with its impressive viaduct spanning the gentle waters. In such days of austerity you wouldn’t see anyone building such monumental accomplishments just to get to a small village with a pub and some ducks. But back in the day, this area was obviously more than just a nice place for a pleasant amble, plus the Victorians just built stuff because they could. Now I’m not one for harking back to times past – sure the Victorians had nice bridges, but they also had slavery, gonorrhoea and a frumpy old queen, but Calstock does have 1950s type air, when looting was a form of music rather than a favourite pastime and the milkman said hi and gave you a wink.

Underneath the arches was a nice walk along the river to Cotehele House – more sumptuousness within steeply banked woodland and manicured gardens – and Cotehele Quay, with further evidence of that Victorian industriousness when this place was an active port shipping supplies down to Plymouth and the world beyond. A natural spot for the National Trust to care for and develop tea rooms and gardens and, oh yes, cream teas. There was also a little interpretative centre, ideal for the kids among us to fritter away some of the lengthy wait before the next train back to Plymouth.

From this point on the weather really decided to go downhill, more traditional English summer school holiday fare of drizzle and dankness and cool temperatures (though it’s true that it never feels quite as cold as the thermometer suggests it is). But deep down my Britishness means I don’t let a bit of cloud and wimpy attempts at rain get in the way, and my next excursion was spent with people soaking up such weather for their summer holidays in Teignmouth and Shaldon. Fish and chips and ice creams (both of which I soaked up) alongside deckchairs, beach huts and amusement arcades all attempting fairly dismally to brighten the gloom.

While Teignmouth was a tad tatty, across the river Shaldon was far more clean cut, with its little cottages and window boxes and quaint riverside pubs. It also formed a gateway to escape the summer holiday melee and attack a small but intense part of the coast path. The Ness – a rocky red outcrop at the southern entrance to the Teign estuary – was a small bump compared to the next hill south, which never seemed to end in its rolling creamy greenness. The rewarding views and ice cream reward back in Shaldon was merited, though a little more blue sky and a little less grey cloud wouldn’t have gone amiss.

In between little trips there was of course jolly old activities in Plymouth, with its ever depressing but still somehow lovable city centre, rapidly disintegrating but lovable football team, and the mayhem of lovable family and friends. Mostly, activities revolved around lovable food, such as scrumptious dinner at Dave and Sue’s and, the next day, feeling a little tired and emotional from the night before, a perfectly designed combination of roasted pork belly, roast potatoes, veggies, stuffing and the liquid gold that was Mum’s gravy. The roast.

Hark at me, anyone would think I was Rick Stein or something the way I am rambling incoherently about a bit of tucker. But Rick Stein I am not, since I don’t own an endless cash generating machine that is Padstow in August (though I do have an amazing skill at linking seamlessly to the next day trip destination). After a shortish jaunt on the train to jaunty Bodmin Parkway station, a wait for a bus (time productively filled with tea accompanied by coffee and walnut cake at said jaunty station), and an hour long churn through the Cornish countryside, Padstow was reached. And I was not the only one there, despite the incessant murk which, at least, had not turned to rain. Most were giving their money to Mr Stein, lovable chap that he is, or just standing around the harbour probably contemplating why on earth did we have our summer holidays in England?

Mercifully, markedly few walked beyond Padstow and out alongside the sweeping sands of the Camel estuary to the Atlantic Coast. Where it was still not raining...a small achievement rising that I had made it this far, out to the promised land of the North Cornwall coast without getting lashed by painful squalls and getting soggy trouser bottoms. It was, of course, as satisfying as ever, regardless of weather.

Out beyond Stepper Point, the classic images emerged around every corner, though the sea was surprisingly subdued, less in the way of dramatic crashes and rushes of pounding water echoing around. There were cows, and a few people, the odd foreign looking type enjoying their summer holidays somewhere cooler than home, and a friendly man walking the dog to get away from the wife who he left shopping in Padstow. He must have been worried, as I passed him again coming back in the other direction, in somewhat of a rush to get back to Padstow and rescue his credit rating.

I probably should have followed him but decided to follow a cross country signpost vaguely indicating the direction of Padstow, thus creating a perfectly formed loop path. Alas it was mostly along a country lane that was so typically narrow to the extent that I had to breathe in when anything bigger than a Nissan Micra passed by and you couldn’t see much because the magnificent hedgerows were like 200 feet high or something. It had also now decided ‘oh yes I will actually rain today like I was supposed to’, at which point your feet suddenly start to hurt and you have a mini losing the will to live type episode. This losing the will to live episode continues unabated as you wait for several buses to connect you back to Bodmin Parkway and its jaunty little station, and realise you actually spent more time today on public transport than being outdoors.

Without wishing to sound like an irate Daily Mail reader, I swear it is getting harder and harder to reach parts of Britain by public transport these days. I noticed the twice daily bus service to wonderful Noss Mayo appeared to have vanished. Train times rarely link up with bus times and some services don’t even appear to connect to any place or anything else whatsoever. It’s still a million times more navigable than in Australia, but when you have a double decker bus heading to Bodmin Parkway station which has a low bridge to pass under, you know things aren’t quite right. So it was a pleasure to jump in the car and be driven to the edge of Dartmoor, and the beautiful and captivating gurgling of the River Plym one afternoon later in the week.

England really does has an excess of chlorophyll, though one thing I don’t get is that if green is supposed to be a relaxing colour, why isn’t everyone here just sooooo chilled? I blame Eastenders or something, all that screaming and shouting about nothing in particular. Now if people watched In the Night Garden more then things would be very different, although perhaps that tune would get stuck in their head, driving people to despair and even increased murderousness. Oopsy daisy, as they say.

Ah, the children, what it is all about...each trip to Europe involves several bouts of peekaboos and getting beaten up by kids and reading stories about a blue thing with a red towel. Despite the tiny terrors it’s actually rather joyous to visit family and friends with little ones. I figure it’s something I don’t really get exposed to so much in Australia, what with my own lack of children and seeming inability to be serious and contemplate procreation on a reproductive scale. Anyway, a day at Paignton Zoo in the pouring rain with nine-going-on-nineteen Bethany is probably enough to put me off for life! Bless her, she’s a diamond, but I’m not so fond of her cheating at Top Trumps!

The day at the zoo was inevitably dampened by the tormenting rain, which can’t have been what the animals were hoping for when they got captured and told they were moving to the English Riviera... “Oh look at this Ming Ming, they have palm trees and everything there, and even a love nest for us to make out complete with Panda-cam”. There were no pandas by the way, but an elephant and rhino and plenty of monkey things and lovely giraffes and numerous other creatures. I didn’t see the Kangaroos but they were probably wishing they were back in Canberra, in the sun.

Of course, the day that it came to depart Devon this time around heralded splendid clear blue skies and warmth. Gliding through the countryside on the train things were idyllic once more. Glistening in the morning light, Teignmouth looked rather charming. Children were playing happily and without incident. Sheep and cows and other exotic animals were grazing contentedly. It always seems to send me off this way, Devon. I’m just glad I’ve scheduled a few more days in next month. If someone could schedule some sunny, warm weather as well that would be just super.

Bonkers Honkers Zonkers

If I was to choose anywhere that was the antithesis of the place that I left I’d be hard pushed to look past Hong Kong. Okay, so Canberra and Hong Kong were both civilised by the British and have a few hills to climb, but that’s as close as it gets. What Hong Kong has is that messy, chaotic, smelly concoction that comes from people being crammed together, putting the definite hum in humanity in the sweltering midst of August. I’m not sure I could live in it, but it’s sure one hell of a fun ride to visit. Five days in which to soak up not just several hundred pints of water vapour, but funny writing, slick buildings, star ferries and crazy trams, Big Buddhas and little feet, hanging ducks and pork buns. A city insane in the making and constantly on the edge of insanity. Here are some neon blinking highlights...

I can’t believe it’s hot, Buddha

The first day in Hong Kong was spent getting out of Hong Kong, with a trip to Lantau Island, and a cable car ride up to the ‘Big Buddha’. Naturally, you’d find this would be the first thing on any Australian’s list, and it was infinitely better than the big potato or big cheese. Sure, there was a theme park feel to the place, what with the insatiable appetite for consumption in the air, but once you actually made it to Buddha and ambled around the nearby Po Lin Monastery, you got that serene feeling that seems to come with the smell of incense, vegetarianism, and repetitive monosyllabic chanting.

The Big Buddha itself sits atop many many steps, paying pilgrimage a chore in the midday sun. But he has a terrific view, along with an inside that is blessed with some of that spiritual air-conditioned comfort. While hot, the weather was in fact marvellous, a splendid day to take in the mountainous surrounds and many islands spread out afar. An introduction to a side of Hong Kong that is not all high-rise mayhem.

Up here, vegetarian fare seemed to be the order of the day, given all these Bok Choi loving Buddhists and one extra cabbage muncher called Jason who was with me on this day. Apart from the excellent tofu, it was gloopy fare for the most part, but at least it took us into the serenity and shade that was the Monastery and various temples and gardens.

City Life

The city is spectacular and crazy, though where the city starts and ends is virtually impossible to ascertain. A rather good perspective was attained from ‘the other side’ on Wednesday night – or Tsim Sha Tsui as I preferred not to try to pronounce it. Generally, the biggest, shiniest skyscrapers seem to broadly indicate the city, but then these stretch on and on along the narrow line of land between harbour and mountain. Still, whichever way you look, a stunning view to soak up and all for the price of about 25p on the Star Ferry.

Many an ambling was done in Wan Chai, where we were staying just to the east of the city proper. Here, the contrast between east and west is all around, from large corporate offices and Starbucks to the narrow lined markets selling lots of anything and everything. The caramel frappuccino may be slightly more appealing than the rows of fish and hanging intestines, but the latter is certainly more authentic...I think. But in true Hong Kong style it doesn’t matter, each can naturally exist in their own right...dim sum can be next to an Irish bar which can be next to a Thai massage long time happy valley ending which can be next to an electronics store which can be next to a fruit and veg stall which can be next...okay so you get the point. The thing is, the best approach as a visitor is to just go with it and lap it up.

Which is exactly what we did by jumping on a tram, or something very narrow and tall that looked as though it could topple over at any moment on rails. It was great to just sit at the top of the back deck, get some slight relief from a breeze and watch the city bustle its way along. Breezing past the shiny cleanliness of skyscraper world, where important people were no doubt doing important things like pillaging the global economy. On to Central, where designer boutiques and the occasional colonial artefact were interspersed with narrow alleyways stuffed with market goods. Heading deeper into a less anglicised world of Chinese shops and shoebox apartments and – yes that very very Chinese thing – construction sites. And probably a step too far, Kennedy Town, a pleasant enough neighbourhood, but one from which we had to return on a more crowded tram.

Things neither cool nor quieten down much at night. In fact, the place is so abuzz at night and at its neon best that darkness appears to be its most comfortable state. It’s a very easy place to have a big night or two, even easier when you are with Jason and Mat, who somehow made the adjustment from living in Canberra to Hong Kong. A quiet beverage in Wan Chai turns into a few more, and Friday night provides the splendour of Taiwanese Dim Sum followed by peanuts galore on the floor and 7-11 beers on the tiers. Yes, one of the cheapest and most entertaining ways to be cheap and entertain oneself is by buying cans of beer from the 7-11 and drinking them on the streets of Lan Kwai Fong. Now, it is important to note here, this is not the same as buying two litres of cider and drinking them on the street corner in Swilly and being a disrespectful and idiotic hooligan. There is no nastiness or aggression. Just many people enjoying themselves in a free and open way, even if that involves borrowing some devil horns once in a while.

Should one feel a little tired and emotional from all this, or simply overwhelmed by the excesses of humanity, I always find a city’s parks can be a godsend. Hong Kong has some very fine examples, true lush oases in the urban jungle, though it’s not so easy to escape those pesky human beings. Sunday afternoon in particular, when, feeling a little tired and emotional, I ventured along to Victoria Park in Causeway Bay. Here, every single shady spot (and there were many) was cloaked by women aged between something like 15 and 35 enjoying a picnic, a natter, and the free wifi on their various technological gizmos. I wondered if it was some giant pick-up joint, and suddenly felt very conspicuous... white, greying westerner with big camera seeking happy ending. But no-one batted an eyelid and even threw in a few dance routines in the midst of the fig trees as I wandered along, big lens extending once in a while to capture the madness that is this city.

Peaking early...and again

They say one of the best places to get a perspective on the city is from atop Victoria Peak on Hong Kong Island. I was a little concerned that we had not made it up here on two clear and sunny days previously, a risk in a city in which clouds and storms and smog can often blanket the panorama. But I need not have worried, another fabulous and hot day on Saturday made the walking and waiting for the Peak tram arduous but undoubtedly worthwhile. The tram is a tourist must do, and so being a tourist, I was very glad to let it take the strain.

It’s amazing just how lush and green a large part of Hong Kong is, thanks in no small part to its precipitous geography which limits the opportunities for more high density housing (for now at least). They have of course managed to squeeze a couple of shopping centres at the top of the Peak, but the air-conditioning they offer is a real crowd pleaser. As too is the top floor, offering substantial views in all directions, without having to pay for the privilege.

It doesn’t take quite so long up here though to leave the hustle and bustle, thanks to a number of tracks and trails. I guess in theory it’s a little cooler for leisurely pursuits such as dog walking, not that it felt any different to me. In between the welcome shade, more views can be had both across the city and out to other islands and mountainous horizons.

The road down from the Peak, in a very full bus, never seems to end, a constant winding freefall through the trees past opulent houses and the occasional apartment block. It does end though, and very handily close to the hotel. This made it extremely easy to return, via bus, the following evening to soak up the late day glow and shadows transforming into dusky twinkling lights and night time illuminations. Seriously unlike Mount Ainslie.

From one island to another to another

Sunday night upon the Peak was like the culmination of everything that had gone before and Monday was the day to get out of this place. To be honest, I was just about ready to leave, mainly to escape the almost torturous humidity, switching to something a bit more bearable, as well as resting the overloaded senses. But there was a whole day to go, with my flight late on in the evening, thus giving me the opportunity of a ferry ride to the compact island of

Cheung Chau.

The ferry ride was like all good ferry rides – naturally cruisy with a decent breeze, as the boat trundled its way alongside the islands, with bigger and more impressive ferries whizzing their way to Macao, mammoth cargo ships inching onwards to deliver their loads, and the occasional fishing boat extracting something from the water to turn pungent on a street somewhere nearby.

Cheung Chau is quite a small island, though still with 30,000 inhabitants packed somewhere in its midst. Unlike most of the other islands though, it is low rise and relatively unglamorous, narrow streets making the bicycle the standard form of transport. It was quite amazing to observe the riding skills of these cyclists, taking on narrow streets and shuffling pedestrians with aplomb as they somehow wove their way through gaps and angles that looked to be mathematically impossible.

The guide books described it as the most Chinese of the islands, this equating to similar mayhem to elsewhere but with fewer Engrish signs and a scruffier, earthier look and feel. The harbour in particular was a throng of activity and hubbub, packed with junk and junks and other vessels looking barely seaworthy, delivering fish to be salted and aired out in the open, infusing with the smell of incense from a nearby temple to create an interesting aroma. Nearby streets were crammed with shops and stalls containing seemingly dated and obscure electrical products, next to dried fish bits next to inflatable beach goods. With its maze of narrow streets and love of tat, it was like Polperro on Chinese gymnast steroids.

As well as Polperro, there were tenuous comparisons to be had with Manly in Sydney – a short walk from the ferry harbour along a square and small strip of shops taking you to the other bay side of the island in a couple of minutes. Here a stretch of sand lined with the occasional spot for a cooling drink, a clean looking beach not unpleasant at all. In the distant thundery looking haze was Hong Kong Island and the tops of skyscrapers peeking above surrounding hills.

Apparently it’s not surfing that’s the go-go here, but windsurfing. However, today there was hardly a breath of air on what was turning into the most humid day, the sunniness of previous days replaced by an indecisive greyness that could either turn into a deluge or break into watery sunshine depending on what mood it was in. This set the scene for a rather sweaty walk up from the beach and along undulating streets to the southern part of the island. Here, more substantial and leafy houses dotted the way, before giving way completely to woodland for a little while, into which the island’s cemetery gradually infiltrated. The final, downhill part emerged into the southern end of the harbour where, once again, a more chaotic and scruffy authenticity reigned.

Back around the bay a little to the ferry harbour I picked up some coke and an ice cream, an attempt to cool down a little. I thought about lingering on the beach but the dodgy looking weather and enticement of an air-conditioned fast ferry just creeping into the quay were enough to propel me back to Hong Kong Island. With still several hours to spare before my late night flight, and a few dollars left on my Octopus card (like the oyster card but with extra tentacles), I once again took the Star Ferry across to TST, a final opportunity to walk the ‘avenue of stars’, locate Bruce Lee, and gaze back upon the impressive city skyline.

Can I call this a relaxing start to a holiday? No way. Can I call it one of the most stimulating, consistently eye-opening and enduringly memorable few days? Without a doubt. A final discovery to be had was the pleasure of Japanese Ramen at the airport, putting me in a contented and relaxed mood for the long trip to Germany, and some decent airplane naps. From there, Tuesday’s sunrise accompanies me on the hop over to London City and anarchy in the UK. Out of chaos comes order?