A late winter walk though Tulbagh.

The kiss of the winter sun is joyful.

There have been days of rain, and more rain -when I sit indoors with blankets wrapped around my legs and a prized water bottle tucked beneath, savouring winter soup and wondering how the months slipped away. But the South African winter also offers honey coloured days, warm and thick, gentle and gooey days when being outside, exploring, is a terribly good idea.

The Western Cape, where I find myself, is blessed with winter rainfall, and when the sun does come out, it is to reveal the lushest, verdant space topped by endless blue sky.  The cattle are washed, dirt roads pooled and challenging, and landscape at this time of the year, sings. As I get older, my love for nature grows more profound, or does it circle? Tadpole hunting as a child, now tadpole watching again.

 

Visiting Tulbagh begins with a beautiful drive through wine and wheat country.  This is Paarl and Wellington country, rising and falling between misty valleys, slipping down a gorge and up the other side;  tripping names that clicks on the tongue.  Afrikaans footprints.  Colonial drama. Obiqua history. And Tulbagh.

Tulbagh is known primarily for two reasons.  The first is the charming amble along the oldest part of town, Kerk Street, a visual feast of early Victorian, Edwardian and Dutch cottages … and the earthquake.

Love looking at old photos, don’t you?  Generations of people we tend to forget lived a really long time ago, with hardship, pioneering and discovery.  Without grand hospitals, schools – at times trekking, farming, feeding and raising families. Never to return to the country of their birth.

The tourism museum, which doubles as the Earthquake museum (you heard correctly), pays homage to the early settlers.  I wonder why they always have to look so glum? Even the children here are so serious. Glum must have been fashionable for formal portraits but rather sad, this strict sense of morality and duty. Life was basic, but I am hoping full of romance and laughter too.  Names like Retief, de Vos, de Bruyn, Marais – dutch settlers mainly who were given land to farm in 1699.

Tulbagh was discovered by Mr. Pieter Potter, surveyor for Jan van Riebeeck in 1658, and is the forth oldest town in South Africa.  Can you guess the other three?  Named after a former Dutch govenor, Ryk Tulbagh, the town prospered and officially called so in 1804.

The Earthquake and heritage museums are beside the Tourist information centre and a good starting point.  The staff are most helpful and a ‘pensioner’s’ ticket for R20 will give you access to the church and four museums along Kerk Street.  A poignant visit to the past, unexpected, loss of lives and property, one cannot help but feel for the townsfolk, the farming communities and all those affected by the quake.  This happened on the 29th September 1969, at precisely 10.09 pm –  you will see a clock, time suspended when the earthquake struck.

At the one end of Kerk street is the church and even before entering, I spy the ever important pineapple.  My fascination for pineapples in London and England is well know to many, but to see one here, in the middle of the Western Cape, in Tulbagh, had me at … colonisation.  In the 17th Century, it was the pineapple and tulip that signified wealth in Europe.  Built by the OVC, the Dutch East India company in 1795, the interiors are filled with heritage pieces, an original Bible and here for me, the reality of slavery most felt.  A separate gallery for slaves above the front door, the slave bell at the entrance and a receipt – the buying of a young girl for a few, meagre pounds.

This is why history is so important to preserve – we must never be allowed to forget, the good, and the bad and learn from it.

Camellias bloomed, blossoms pink as we wandered from number to number of house, down the entire street, some converted to art galleries, cafés and restaurants – some preserved in a delighted competition of the gables.  One begins to notice how they change in building style, the further we walked, the more elaborate the gables became.  Times were prospering then, the influence of simple Dutch, to Victorian, and later Edwardian architectural styles, carefully restored after the earthquake to their original form. The Dutch gabled house, so tied to the history of this land, is one of the iconic features in the houses down the road.

 

The walk should be a slow one, each numbered house has a sign with all the information about it, lovely to read before entering and guides to answer your questions. Appreciate the craftsmanship in wood and iron.  My family used to have a farm in the Free State, dating back to the 18th century with window sills exactly like these I found – the walls were so thick that each window offered a little bench to sit and watch the world go by.

Highly recommended and thank you to all who shared their pride in living there with us. To end the day, a glorious meal outside, under the trees, cows close, snow on the mountains and blossoms my kind of happy pink, for spring is on the way.

Discover South Africa, the mystery and magic will hold you close.

 

 

Chelsea Flower Show dates for 2021

SEPTEMBER 21 – 26TH 2021

The Chelsea Flower show may have been postponed in May this year, just like everything else, but the good, no, great news is that it has been re-scheduled for September this year. That is optimism personified, and by the looks of things, tickets are selling very fast.

Events are beginning to pick up again.  England is opening up, perhaps to locals at present, but it sends a clear message that travel and tourism, events and festivals, are back in the dairy.

Prior to The Chelsea Flower show, will be the Hampton Court Flower Show.

There are times, I must confess, the Hampton Court Flower Show, or Garden Festival, is a personal, better choice.  The venue is fabulous, at the famous Palace, built for Cardinal Wolsey  in the Sixteenth century, taken by Henry VIII when the former fell out of favour.  King Henry VIII brought all of his six wives to Hampton Court.  

The grounds are worth seeing, and site specific too many film locations, the latest being Bridgerton.

So your planned visit will be made even more special.  Visit the show, walk along the large pathways between unusual and legendary Yew trees, the sunken garden, all along the beautiful Thames.  Getting there by car, or train is a easily done, or better still, stay in one of the lovely hotels close by.

Back to The Chelsea Flower Show.  It promises to be so much more interesting this year.  Few people understand how much preparation goes into the show, the meticulous planning by growers and landscapers to produce the ultimate flowers, just at the right time – and now, the date has been moved on, so what should we expect in the late summer season?  Garden lovers will not be disappointed.  For those truly immersed in all things gardening, your favourite garden designers will back.

PS. The pictures of the proteas you see, were actually taken at Chelsea a while ago.

If you are planning to visit the show, why not stay in London for a few days?  There are many gardens and parks that will be at their best in September.  Make it a Garden lover’s delight, immersing yourself in everything garden beautiful that London has to offer.

Hopefully, even some International Travel will be open to those who yearn to visit London.  We continue to stay safe, take precautions, but equally, continue to dream of destinations and holidays.

Knowing that The Chelsea Flower Show, is happening this year, hold thumbs, is a great way to get in touch, and plan a brilliant trip.

And who knows, perhaps next year, we can help you plan the ultimate trip around some spectacular English Gardens, including The Chelsea Flower Show.  One of our favourite itineraries.

#thechelseaflowershow #travel #london #travelplanner #englishgardens #thesilvertravelcompany

Trusting to Travel again? How anxious are you about committing?

Brugges in Autumn

“Traveling – it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” – Ibn Battuta

The truth is, we have all become a tad more boring over the past year.  Lack of stimulation in lockdown, and I say this tentatively, has increased skills of baking and the like, but what do we really talk about now since the world went into freeze the tape mode?  I for one, almost fear the C word conversation now, it’s negative and boring and look forward to being able to JUST GET OUT and experience things.

Like a walk through a gallery, or sitting at a sidewalk café, being able to talk about a route taken, a plan make, a holiday laid forth, which is why I write.  We are being allowed glimpses of foreign holidays in the near future, but are we really?  Will we make plans and then be disappointed?  What do you think?

Camps Bay, South Africa.

Next month was supposed to see me sitting at Lake Como.  Not going to happen.  So today I thought, ok, we’ll move it to Autumn, still a beautiful time to visit the Lakes.  Or Brugges, or Paris or …

And I begin.  Flights.  Have vouchers and look at dates.  I begin to lose my nerve.  What if this is going to end up being cancelled, all over again?  After the previous, plentiful cancellations, I find myself fearful of dashed hopes. Interestingly enough, looking at dates for Varenna, the hotels are surprisingly full, which indicates that others like me are hoping things will resume some sort of normality again.  Maybe I should just get those dates in, imagine waiting for the green light and I am stumped for accommodation? She ponders.

Then I begin to wonder about the thought of having to wear masks in public, in restaurants, on public transport.  Will that still be required – how is it going to feel when one goes exploring for hours on end, only to have to breathe through cloth for most of it?  Will it be the same, will I be tentative of every entrance, a crowd of people, buying a ticket?  How anxious am I really?  Do you feel the same?  Have we become so fearful of the unknown virus that it will keep us from living full and curious lives, indefinitely?

Left bank. Paris.

The braver amongst us will be on the next flight. Cheap as chips, anything to mix and mingle and party into the night.  I remember that energy, I wish I still had that bravado. Families will staycation, but when you are a single, solo traveller like me, later in life, it is the cities and culture you crave, more than a suntan, in my case anyway.

It is the storytelling in travel that takes hold.  Witnessing cultures, art and drama.  Tasting new flavours and hearing new languages.  Stories all. The days are different when we are not at home.

As much as I yearn, and itch to travel soon, I myself am still in quarantine – facing hotel quarantine and a million COVID tests.  South Africa will be a long time in receiving the vaccine and so the months are spent patiently waiting, yet burning to immerse myself in airports, cobbled streets, beaches and castles again. How will things look though, and how will they be?  Another day passes and I withhold for final bookings, payments are withheld, like the dreams of being able to collect more stories in my life to share.

Yet, we can follow the rules, be careful and courteous and still push ourselves, or trust ourselves to take the chance.  We need to support tourism, we need to widen our horizons once again, and we need to travel.

The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page. – Saint Augustine

Afraid I am not much company at the moment.  My stories may be getting a little tired.

For me, it is not the fear of the unknown so much as the fear of moving forward from the known.

And I cannot make Banana bread and tell one more person about it.

How do you feel about travelling again?

Images: Travel pockets

Hotel Quarantine? The personal Dickension version, perhaps.

A plague was bad enough. Is bad enough … the dame seems to want to hang around for some time still.  I have been a good girl I have, doing the quarantining when I should have, two weeks in isolation and staring at the ceiling, but then there was the odd spot of walking, and taking in a much needed gulp of fresh air.

Now, dear Lord, the Hotel quarantine has raised it’s ugly head.  For the opportunity to return to London after my stint in the South, I will face a ten day sentence, at my expense.  To recap, just to really ponder it deeply, I shall voluntarily submit to being locked up in a hotel room, at the airport, in mid-winter, at my own expense for the price of a castle, for ten days.  In this time, escorted to jail, I will have the dubious experience of three delicious meals a day, and that is it. Travel supreme.

The vision: travel for twelve hours, subjected to a Covid test with nostrils flaring and gagging on a stick. Mask wearing for close to twenty-four hours. Reception, dark. Interrogation, for sure. Marched to a room, door locked and sealed and … the tragedy begins.

I shall call it debtor’s prison, for surely the cost of the tests, flight and storage of moi, will bankrupt me.

‘It was an airless room, still dank and smelling of the previous occupant.  The stale stench of hibernation pervades. My only companion, my suitcase, must find residence in the small space, enough to see for comfort, not to become the object of ‘Wilson’ to which I may cling as my sanity escapes through the keyhole.

The utmost of fears, realised, is that the window is one that will not open.  It is a non-opening window. Air is expensive. Being an airport hotel, the view, through the unwashed window shall resemble a veil of British waste, streaks of grey to peer between to view, gray. Anxiety reigns.  It is only the first five minutes, so I shall steel myself to the outcome and look for the many bottles of wine I packed in the second suitcase for the very purpose.

As I look around, the bed offers no comfort but a a future womb of troubleness.  There is a desk, a television, a chair and in the beside drawer, a bible.  The latter will come in handy when I say my last confession. The bathroom, no window, will be my second home, complete with small cake of soap and a shower cap which I must resist to put over my head to end it all.

I will exercise – despite the carpet looking like a map of the world with stains resembling cities and the others, we shall call them something else. Perhaps I shall exercise on my bed. Or in the bath. Or, on top of the basin. In a cupboard, if there is one.

Day two will find me at fifty hours of sleeping. Netflix has invaded my veins. Facebook, my best friend and books, well, I forgot to bring any. Good for me though, brownie badge for getting changed into clothes. Make-up done.

Day four and I have forgotten whether I did get dressed, or perhaps just pretended to. The thirty showers a day has become moot. I am trying to remember what day it actually is, so brushing my teeth could have happened yesterday.

Day six and I am Fagan, gnarly and suspicious of sound. Paranoia descends and I am convinced the world has ended and I am the last person alive, only no-one will find me and I shall be locked in forever.  I have made friends with the marks on the walls, given them names and speak to them regularly. The sheets have become monsters and I am singing Christmas songs with stale toast to celebrate.

Tried pleading for a walk, a talk, a trip to the lobby to get tampons and a gun, but they said no. You are too old for tampons and we don’t supply guns. My knives are plastic now. They took the bathrobe belt away.

Day three.  I’m good. At least I think it is day three, or was that last year? I have fallen in love with Piers Morgan, and he speaks to me, I know it is just to me, sending little signals through the television. I have started climbing the headboard, just like I did when I climbed Mount Everest, or was it the Parliament buildings, or the gallows at Tyburn – I forget. The hag in the mirror is cackling at me, bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.  But I am not afraid, I am Amazon. What was Amazon? Bits of food confetti my bed. Someone screamed close by, dying in the Great Fire. But I am good.

Day whatever. Fear of water and Golm under my bed. I can play the castanets now, and dribble for long periods of time. The gas lamps are lit, the candles burn and my music makes me long for Barry Manilow. Invented fifty ways of lying on my bed. Was my first glass of wine at six am or six fifteen, I forget but it does not matter … have forgotten a few things of late. Like my name, for instance.  So I will be known as Lucretia.

Call me Lucretia.’

When the hotel staff came for testing, I was naked, begging for more.

When the hotel staff came to let me out, I was sleeping in my suitcase.

Singing softly about coffee houses, gin and toffs who collect dog shit for the tanneries.

So, with this wonderful possibility of a) going stark raving mad, or

b) going stark raving mad.

I may just wait until the hotel/prison/bedlam/gulag/dying in a suitcase/begging for swabs up my nose situation is lifted, I may just sit tight and dream of England, from afar. Oh, England, I long to see you, but your demands are too high for a mere waif like me who needs air to breath, a walk in your wonderful parks, and a coffee that doesn’t taste like the Thames, circa 1600.

Just saying …

Image: Eurocheapo

 

London – a walk beyond King’s Cross.

It is a long way away from the normal, energetic and bustling city I am used to right now.  Nevertheless, there is a beauty in the Sleeping Beauty city of wonder.  Whilst all are in lockdown and keeping close to home, I find myself, for work, and might I add, mental well being, still venturing into the quiet city, still within the boundaries, still to find the majesty and grandeur beneath the veil of silence.

The city is sleeping.  A pocketful of people are out in the financial and tourist areas, and where I would once be striding and headlong walking and giving tours, I now have time to linger, look up, get closer and take in new (and there are always new) sights and signs, adding to the massive photograph selection, notes and reminders, to review, research and formulate different tours.

Today I found myself at King’s Cross and St. Pancras.  These are two of my favourite places, mainly because they are the hubs from which I alight and make my way to the Eurostar. She still travels to Paris, albeit with a select list of passengers and nothing else open, not even a quick coffee to collect for the journey.  I am not one of those fortunate to travel to France at the moment, so must wistfully look at the beauty from afar and wait to return to the queue boarding, in the future.

St. Pancras is an architectural marvel, linked to the grand and stunning St. Pancras Hotel. Now closed, hopefully not for long.

Over the past few years, much has happened to the sort of run down area, behind King’s Cross. Old Coal Yards and Gas Buildings have been transformed into glistening apartments, the University of Arts London, restaurants, piazzas, office buildings and open living spaces.

 

From the rubble to magnificent urbanisation.  Love the way structures of the past, once perhaps unsightly, have been transformed.  In the winter sunshine, the harnessing of urban architecture and green spaces marry history and a vivid past. Granary Square is inviting, complete with urban pieces, water features and an inviting view of the canal. A close walk to Coal Drops Yard, again forged anew from working rail yards and derelict ruins.  Keeping parts of the old structure, two skyward roofs seem to rise from concrete and melt into each other, like the tail of a whale rising up from the sea.

Though quiet today, the hustle of upmarket shops align side by side for business. Glass and brick art. And the building continues. An urban oasis. Loo break provided, and we know in the time of lockdown, loo hunting is part of the game. As a tour guide, this is an essential part of the business, but in lockdown, and doing my research, it is even more vital when a coffee, or two, cannot go amiss, particularly when the weather is bristling and cold.

St Pancras Basin.  How far can one walk along the water’s edge? What is so lovely, as in all of London, is the respect for the past, for architecture which may have been functional, or decorative, restored. Incorporated into the new London, the ever changing London.  We learn so much from every part of her.  King’s Cross remembers the many who laboured and built a great railway, bricked the walls and buildings with pride.  Who brought the coal, the cheese, the people to this mecca.

It is a beautiful walk, not well known to tourists, but important to discover as this is as important and beautiful as the many known tourist sights.

The sun was out, the gloves were on, the eyes pleasured by it all. Now to get down to the notes, the history and how this development will add to the glory of the city and her people.

 

Walking London. Grand Union Canal, Paddington and early Christmas lights.

I really, really, really don’t want much for Christmas … really.  Right now, I just want the whole wide world to return to normal.  That’s not asking much is it?  Just put it under my Christmas tree, in a beautifully wrapped parcel – here delightful, here is the world returned and all is good with the universe.

This lockdown has been brutal. Twelve months ago, the city was vibrant, alive with festive merry spreading.  Lights were inspiring and the best excuse to go into the city, have dinner, or to a show.  A glass of wine at the Stafford after a brilliant tour, so different to now.  So now we are trying to capture Christmas a whole month early, and who can blame us?  Houses are being draped in lights, trees are up and it is only November. Along with the November moustaches and early pretend it’s Christmas, all looks altered again.

To still the anxiety which creeps regardless, and kill the boredom of not having to go to my favourite place for an early morning coffee, I walk. If anything, to hear the sound of buses going, to seek life, to find nature. The tube seems like the last ride to a scary place, all masked and suspicious.  Some are mask defiant and we scowl at them.  I try and sip my second choice coffee furtively and not draw attention – sneak under mask and repeat. Said before, outings now are governed by the acute need to know where to pee – route according to toilet facilities, ah, it has come to this and I guess I am an expert now on where to go when you have to go, when in London.

 

The walk today had me at a few ago. Regent’s park.  It is Sunday, a sunny day, and the entire world is here.  Finding a bench to sit becomes a silent war, as is the pushing and queueing for a takeaway, as if we use ration stamps. The roses are confused – budding and blooming as leaves fall. I feel their fuzziness. The sense of unnaturalness permeates, but we are blessed for sun and budding roses.

Walking along Regent’s Canal is a always a thrill for me, but it is packed with others thinking the same.  We pass, we shimmy alongside, we dodge the puddles and hope not to end in the drink. Armies of the anxious out in the few hours of light. We marvel at the duo paddling on the icy water, actually no. Fawn over the mansions with a view and a silent resolve to try the Lotto once again. The weather is indeed, great, so great I am sweating in the double layering of maybe winter.

And then the light happens.  It’s only four in the afternoon, but the light comes to the water. It is astonishing, brilliant and sharp and magnificent on swans, duck feathers, house boats, spilling down from glass buildings and into liquid. Gushingly gorgeous. We all, collectively, swoon and click. This is the reward for the cloying, claustrophobic living lockdown.

 

The light is dancing on the Paddington basin.  Houseboats are smoking and show piles of firewood on their roofs. It must be cold on the water.  The Grand Canal is a triumph of development behind Paddington station.  Now office blocks are eerily quiet and the many restaurants closed, but the odd ‘essential’ offering open to ply fish and chips, pastries and coffee. It is modern and eclectic and smatterings of old London, given credit and offered to cheer us up.  Love the statues, the messages, the poems on walls and the neon lights.

The station is deserted.

Then it is to London, my style Christmas delight.  The Angels on Regent and Jermyn Streets. Burlington arcade, quiet but glittered.

Lashings of copper, gold and green. The tree in Trafalgar Square is still missing, a gift from Norway to the English in thanks for the support during the war and always delivered, every year.  Will she appear? Still walking, still not ready to go home, I cross to Southbank. There are no stalls, no Christmas music and steaming Mulled wine.

She has survived many times, did I ever imagine myself to see her wounded so? She shoots shards of brilliance still.

 

All weather walk: Regent’s Park, Primrose Hill, Camden and the Canal.

Hello Sherlock, it has been a while.  I give tours about you Sherlock, and COVID has put that all to bed.  The tourists are far beyond our borders, our borders are closed.  In this time, when it is so easy to get really down and feel hopeless, I am for a walk, a long walk, that begins with you.  Baker Street is a charming Tube Stop, all old and slopey with Wooden staircases leading to different exits.  Normally its bustling with tourists, crowded with tourists for this destination serves two, unique London favourites.  Madam Tussauds, and the man himself – Sherlock Holmes.

I know him intimately and when lockdown fades, can take you to all tales and secrets, and even his ‘home’, at 221B Baker Street. You have no idea how many times I am stopped with enquiries to the home of Sherlock. Bless them.

Where most people recoil from the unpredictable, and gloomy November weather, I love the bracing sharpness that makes walking so much easier.  Clouds of electric blue, dispersed with shots of gun metal gray, and then, the shards of light from a watery sun that turns the sodden leaves to nuggets of gold – the intensity of uncharacteristic seasons all bundled up together, is exhilarating.  As is Regent’s Park, any time of the year.

Regent’s Park is one of the eight Royal Parks, named after the Prince Regent, or playboy prince, who later became King George IV.  The park is one of my favourites and summer is all for rowing boats on the lake, ice-creams and the annual Open Air Theatre.  Visit Queen Mary’s Rose Garden with over 12 000 roses bushes and be enchanted.  I love it in the summer and picnics are a special thing, but it is at any time during the year, from the Spring Bulbs to the stark landscape of fallen leaves and red berries, much enjoyed by this fellow.  As tame as the pigeons on the bridge railing, the Egyptian geese on the lakes and maybe not so tame, are the hedgehogs breeding here, and I am determined to see them.  The park offers a criss cross of walkways, Outer and Inner Circle, sports activities and of course, much walking, and especially in this weather, much needed coffee.

In the lockdown, though I still explore and gather notes, one ‘interesting’ issue to arise, is the lack of bathroom facilities available.  Coffee shops and cafés can now only serve from the doorway and toilets are out of bounds – do not even get me started on this, so irritating, but as a true guide always does, finding clean toilet facilities is an important part of the job.  This time, not so much for my clients, but for me avec the cold weather and hot coffee.  So I make notes of where I will be able to find the next toilets along the route (humbug but neccessaire.) The cafe at Regent’s Park is take away only, and no bathroom, so it was a short walk to the public loos – which have a tiny fee of 20p, payable by contactless card.

The walk was broken by a quick darting into St. John’s Lodge, in the Inner Circle.  The garden is a hidden gem, a little muddy after the rain, but that’s my November thing – striding through muddy patches, hoping not to end up on butt and loving the whole being in nature thing – it’s different in the winter and fall – down and countrified in the city stuff.

The walk, for the loving and the fit, calls you up to Primrose Hill.  The hill of Bridget Jones’ opening sequence and one of the best views over the skyline of London.  For so many people there, it is always a peaceful place.  We are back in the sunshine, and bless us, a touch of physical exercise and sunshine and the joggers strip down to crop tops and goosebumps.  But collectively we stand, resigned at our situation, and looking forth, perhaps for a promise of better, before a silent homage to your struggle brother, to your mental health sister, and peel down the hill into smaller lives.

Bit of a turn here and right there and high street Primrose Hill sparkles in the light I mentioned.  Some jewels are open, some in the box and the locals are clearly loyal to corners for conversations, their dogs either indifferent or grateful for the time to sniff.  One of my favourite restaurant lives in this street – this is a posh area, the houses around the park, up to St. John’s Wood are envious inciting, but generally only for bankers and celebrities, one or two you may spot if you loiter enough.

I am moving from one extreme to the other.  Chalk Farm wedged between Primrose verdant living and the edgy grittiness of Camden Town. This is true London style and why I could never be bored here.  Camden may have changed and become more gentrified in the last decade, she still entices the quirky, the curious and the devoted.  Small entrepreneurs who live their dream and discard the critics, supported by like and live from the punk to the pretty.  They are all at home.  Alleys of locked up loveliness, hidden from the light, but look up at the umbrellas, though a symbol of rain, also the happy dots of we can weather this;  am trying to remain super positive in the loneliness of walking through the Stables.  A few die hard food pop ups temp but the cold and the isolated makes them seem sad also.  The winter of discontent is more pronounced this year. But delight, another toilet opportunity – this is really a tragic situation, and then, of course, to stumble or rather walk into the larger than life statue of Shaka Zulu in London.  This Zulu King does not belong here, abandoned, for now, in an alley.  He looks lost.  I am also thinking, with the whole tear down the statue thing, this king sacrificed young virgins to his hearts content – is he still relevant?  What say you?

The muddy shoes make much of these pathway along the Regent’s Canal.  Puddle obstacles, saunters doing it too slowly but there is no hurry, what else are we going to do? The dampness of rain clings beneath the archways iced with graffiti, into the dark, out in the light, under the archway, another view in sight.  Brilliant homes, tragic views of the London Zoo with Hyenas caged rather than on the Savannahs of Africa – cannot abide the awfulness of it, so look to the Mallards instead.  A single barge comes put-putting down the canal, captain au fait with the instagram moment, no hurry.  Barges line with plastic chairs tied, flower boxes in needs of paint. Winter peels away more than just the prettiness of the summer, yet it is the waiting room for spring and other things can make the days alive and strong.

It is a stunning walk this one, and for most satisfying, but if you think the canal walk goes all the way to the Paddington basin, it’s going to be an abrupt surprise.  This is Edgeware area, there are council flats and bustling shops, the glamour and elegance of the canal much changed as you find your way back to something touristy and familiar. Let it not detract from the splendour, and you can always turn around and do it all again in the other direction.

The walk had plenty of coffee shop (and now she knows the toilet) stops, eateries and seateries along the way.  Great exercise, history and culture, and a little bit of everything thrown in between.

It is a tough time, a really tough time, but I can still get out and discover the very best of London, continue to learn and plan for next year when you are all going to come and visit me!

 

 

 

 

 

Hampstead Heath on a late Autumn day.

The last time I visited Hampstead Heath was nearly a decade ago.  Early January then, dragging a number of my unsuspecting friends up slippery hills and through muddy troughs, but loved it.  This time was no different, only the sun burst through in smatterings and I was exploring on my own.

There are many ways to reach the Heath, and not a part of London I am totally familiar with, so decided to take the Underground to Hampstead and meander along where ever until I see a sign. Sometimes not having exact directions are a good thing – the flanéur thing. It appears that Hampstead Heath is not greatly in favour of signage and I found myself in what I though was the Heath, but Golders Hill Park instead.  Ah well, pleasant, down this path, up that hillock, as one does, to find the my way in a suburb of some of the most magnificent houses in London.  Georgian dreams, sash windows, manicured gardens and very expensive cars in the driveway.  For a little while I dreamed of living in one of those houses, took a few pictures and ambled along – it is a beautiful part of North London.

The Heath covers 790 acres, vast indeed, and consists of woodlands, hillocks, pastures, pools and glorious views.  For a while it was divine to find myself photographing the deep paths leading to who knows where, surrounded by trees hanging onto the last of their Autumn foliage.  Dog walkers calling dogs barking deep in the forest.  Whistles that seldom seemed to work.  Couples and friends with toddlers and babies in prams, asleep in the frosty air. Wrapped up in cocoons.

Aim for Kenwood House.  The Kenwood House made famous in ‘Notting Hill’.  The house is closed, the cafe open to takeaway drinks and a sadness descends when the pavilion and gardens surrounding the house lie still.  But nothing like a great Mocha to warm the heart and a brisk walk to exercise the lungs.  The view from Kenwood House is breathtaking – a little like the walk to get there – the skyline of misty London in the distance. This is a protected view, a stunning view and spend some time making out the various skyscrapers – I see the Shard, I see …

Walking is brisk and I could have done with a pair of Wellies where the water bubbles up through the mud, though all is doable and the boots are gorgeously caked in mud.  Passed the Ladies only swimming pool, rather keen to have a peak but padlocked.  A friend swims there all the time, with winter gloves and cap in the freezing water – also the location of many a film. Can you think of any?

Two pm and the sky is turning darker already.  A man fishes alone, lovers huddle on park benches with sweet words and hot coffee, more dogs, always more dogs in pyjamas and designer gear.  One such lovely Spaniel was dressed in what looked like one of Winston Churchill’s siren suits, and of course, the first deep puddle and in she goes … all the way soaked avec siren suit.  Don’t we love seeing these silly little incidences happening along the way?  I pop in and out of other’s anecdotes on walks like these, but feel quite comfortable to be alone, setting my own pace, choosing my own path … so where to next?

One cannot spend too much time outdoors in winter, and winter it already is.  Daylight shuts at 16.30 pm.  The Heath will darken rapidly and there is a long way to go to the nearest exit or bus stop. When covering an area as large as this, it’s fine to meander, but you also need to calculate your exit strategy – there is a lot of ground to cover from the top of Kenwood House.

Kenwood House.

When all this is over, please visit for a feast of architecture, art and gardens.

Down to Parliament fields and delighted to find the first bus is going to Kentish Town, the Northern Line for my return.  Hop on the bus.  Bus terminates at Highgate, but it’s that kind of afternoon, no rush, discover another gem of a village within a city as I make my way towards the tube.

Popped off at Waterloo, which was dismally quiet for a Friday afternoon.  Do I like less crowds? No, it is eerie and the staff are bored looking at phones and standing for hours with little to do.  The trains run, not as much, and the bookshop, amongst others, is closed.  Foyles is a favourite at the station.  I curse a little under my breath. I miss life as I know it, cannot believe I cannot travel, heart breaking losses and restrictions, so let’s just pray all will go with a Christmas wish.

As the sun drops onto the tracks, I make my way South West.  It is true amongst Londoners;  some are for North London and some for the opposite side. History lies deeper in the North.  Perhaps the idea of living on graves and decades of stories makes it a bit spooky, but I love that about the other side of where I live.

Another day in early second lockdown, and it was a good one.  I am trying to find interesting places to walk most days.  Using the tube is allowed, not recommended but allowed, and for me, getting out, going for long, interesting walks is essential to my mental health.  Being very careful.  Watching the world go by, and exploring London is my business – I do research and make notes as I go along.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Travelling during Covid. September 2020 A soggy day in Bath.

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.” – Anthony Bourdain

Welcome to the new world of travel.  It is going to be a bumpy ride, but it will always be worth it. It is an insatiable thirst, once tasted, always needed.  Always wanted.

The thought of not being able to travel again, this year, was a heartbreaking experience, for me.  I decided, it was not going to be – to sit and wonder and dream of places I needed to visit, and be satisfied to stay at home and embrace Covid. For five months, I sat at home, in South Africa, but dared to venture out to explore the little I could and it was life changing, in my own back yard.  Yet the yearning and the not being able to go beyond borders, seemed stifling, controlling even, and a first repatriation flight for me. Fortunately, and through much hardship, I now have two passports.

Back in London, the fingers were tapping for places to go.  I was not fast enough it seems, for the more I looked, the more the borders closed down in Europe.  Quarantine again.  Go close, I thought, mask in hand, go close, and it was Bath to be. And this is where the travel consultant ventured, and learned, and makes sure she can advise her clients about the experience of Covid travel.  It seemed so simple, a train trip to Bath, a budget hotel –  I have been to Bath so many times, but wanted to see how the world, and travel had changed, or adapted to the new way of being.

Of course.  Distance above all.  The saddest Railway station welcome to date.  Ticker tape evidence, everywhere. There is no dining service on the Train, but the journey itself was gorgeous, through Wiltshire, relaxing and letting the countryside whizz by.  If you are looking for assistance on arrival, best to follow the appropriate apps on your mobile, for humans are scare on the ground.

I had arrived early.  In the past, this was no problem and you could either check in early, or leave your bags at the hotel and return for check in.  I say this now in terms of a budget hotel: arrival was an empty reception area.  To call on the phone for assistance.  Skeleton staff doing all the work, and that included the cleaning, so I was a little concerned as to the quality cleaning of my room. That’s ok, I thought, will leave my bag, and venture into rainy Bath for the afternoon.  No leaving of luggage.

NB.  This has not been my experience is upgraded hotels.  One can still leave your luggage pre or post stay.

I make notes:  does Covid travelling exclude Budget hotels with limited staff for a while?

So it was to spend the afternoon walking through Bath with my luggage, backpack and, feeling like a tortoise with a fancy umbrella, ventured across the river into the heart of the city. This is when you realise that life, or the virus, has sucked the last of small coffee shops, little rendezvous havens and though the actual Baths were open, timed tickets were required.  All looked desolate and sad, even the Roman gods on the edge of the pools. Was it just the rain, the only day of rain, that seemed to create such a morose scene? Lack of hoards in summertime visits, but there were a few diehards waiting outside Sally Lunn’s Buns to tuck into tradition and take that ever important Instagram.

As a good travel consultant does, always checking to see where the good eating places are, where the great toilet facilities are, which hotels had actually opened, I was determined to make the best of it.  Despite the rain, the Abbey Hotel offered a great Afternoon tea and lot of sympathy for the bedraggled, wet person I was, with the luggage.

In the midst of Summer, Bath was pouring down. A gap in the sky had me going back to my hotel.  Now the wi-fi was an issue, and bookings for breakfast strictly observed by time slots.  With masks.  And this is the moment of travel, for now. I got soaked in Bath, I had to lug the luggage, but was I sorry I went?  Not for a minute. It was going back to a gorgeous city, with a history of Jane Austen, the Romans, the Crescent,  the beautiful parks and gardens. It rains in England and I can only say, if you travel when it rains, you find other gems you would normally pass by on a sunny day.

So what am I saying? Travel.  Do it anyway.  We get used to the masks and the lonely stations.  We fly and a face quarantine but it will always be worth it.  The summer is coming to an end but there are are so many local places to visit – the Staycation option is brimming and busy – even to the point of struggling to find accommodation. The point is to get out there and experience the best travel can offer, but be beware of the changes and go with the flow.

Loved Bath: parts deserted, other fully functioning. Rain or shine. Check with your hotel before you travel about left luggage and rules.

Flights are cheaper now – specials are really worthwhile. London, where I am based, is open for business. For some, the borders may still be closed, but wherever you are, support your local tourism and visit.  It is so essential that we get tourism back on its feet, for all of us.  So maybe you need to adapt, we all are, and the more we do, the sooner we get to travel the way we used to.

First trip down. Different but lovely. Dare I say this, but maybe spend a little more for upmarket hotels that offer more in the way of comfort at this time.

Oh, and Italy is still open … guess where I’m going next …

I cannot imagine my life without travel.  Don’t intend to.

 

The Staycation Vacation. And then to fly again.

 

Yeah, a little late in the game.’  she says.

‘What do you mean?’ she says.

‘This Staycation thing … ‘  she says.

It’s true, whilst I was still locked down in limbo city, others were quicker off the mark, getting the little Staycation sorted before the rest of us woke up and smelt the whiff of not being able to find a bed at any Inn.

Yet, it remains an interesting topic.  My generation, back in the day, meant nearly every holiday was right in our own back yard. If it was summer, the pool, your bike and friends were all you needed.  Remember?  The best part of it was not having to go to school.  If it was winter, you twiddled our thumbs. The best part was not having to go to school. That was everything your vacation meant.  Summer and out came the sunflower oil in lieu of sunscreen, the bikinis, lilos and the beach towel you got for Christmas.  LP’s that melted in the shade under the tree and if it was a real good day, Mom would let you share some Coca Cola. Throw in the bonus of going to a movie, or the drive in and heaven was besties and a midnight feast. In winter, we wandered from friends’ houses to friends’ houses, and twiddled our thumbs while we cried to the soundtrack of ‘Love Story.’

The REAL vacation, if all was in favour with the gods, was an annual trip to the beach.  For us it was Durban. Oh, the excitement, the packing and knowing you had to leave at six am in the station wagon for a six hour trip. Being able to go back to sleep for the first part, still in your pyjamas, wedged somewhere between the teenage sister and Ouma.  Halfway stop at ‘Windy Corner’ to turn a brighter shade of green (competing with the car sickness) when that Tupperware lid was hoisted with flourish and the scent of soggy Tomatoes hit you in the face. We shall not talk of the egg between bread.

‘Can you see the sea’ game overtook ‘I spy’ for waning interest in windmills and wheat fields and then, for glory, a week of sand and melting ice-creams. Etched memories of which I swear I can remember every, single one.

 

I could write for hours on our beach holidays. Let’s just say there was a trampoline and that was luxury personified.

Raising my own children, rather privileged in many ways, the trend was for friends to ‘go skiing.’  Young ones flown to foreign slopes on an annual holiday.  We came to London many times.  Exchange students we hosted spoke of visiting … what was it, twenty odd countries … they were fourteen at the time, and what was once a privilege for few became accessible for many to simply plan holidays outside of our own borders. The closing of them during COVID has swung the Staycation straight back into play.  Not only are we unable to fly to most foreign countries at present, but money is tight, budgets being cut, re-thinking being done.  Long haul holidays to foreign beaches are being replaced by a tripple to the local bay and it is a good thing, and we need to support our local tourist spots, now more than ever.

The tourism industry is in dire straits, as if the house has been closed and the covers thrown over the furniture.  When shall she awake from the slumber?  When will the guests return?  They are.  Rather than head for the airport, we are flocking to  beaches, valleys and hamlets to re-discover our own little worlds, we have not really given too much credit for, and once smiled at whilst tourists take pictures of rosy hedges and ha ha’s outside the manor. The flux of foreign to domestic travel is positive and just – back to the closer, the intimate, the good old family holiday.

But I say that holding the double edged sword.  Being in the industry I also know that it is inbound travel that accounts for one of the highest income sources in our economy.  We need inbound travel.  These are the clients that flock to the Private Game Reserves, the top hotels, the famous restaurants.  Travellers who partake of local attractions, spend vast amounts of money in our shops, on indigenous products and cultural activities.  Who hire cars, concierges, partake of tours.  We need them to survive, just as much as we need to re-discover our own back-door destinations. The ability to travel and flavour the world must be fostered – we grow that way.

Everyone seems to be scrambling to find anywhere left to visit for the holidays in England.  Others fear to leave the borders as the quarentine game lobs from border to bored and uncertainty scares the bravest of souls. In South Africa, domestic and foreign borders remain closed, with devastating effect.

Back then I was happiest with my hot pants, a spin on the dodgems, going to the Sharks Board and making new ‘holiday friends.’ As an adult I want the option to travel wherever I choose, to expose my children to different countries and cultures. This sister of all sinister sicknesses has brought both front and centre – staycation is making a comeback.  But not at the risk of travelling abroad, for they need us desperately to survive.

Perhaps the new norm should be a question of balance.  A little of both.  A concerted effort to not only support your local tourism industry, but save enough to have that gorgeous, exotic foreign holiday once, or twice a year.  That way, we all win.

Images:  The Guardian, Revenue -hub