Friendly Bajans

Several years ago, when I was a travel agent, I was lucky enough to get a place on a ‘Fam Trip’ to Barbados. Wow, what a trip!! I absolutely fell in love with the island and the people…the fabulous beaches, the amazing hotels, the food…but the Bajan people are famous for their friendliness, and the fame is totally justifiable.
We stayed at a beautiful, small hotel in the colourful little town of Holetown (a name which doesn’t suit this vibrant little area at all). Mango Bay is an all-inclusive hotel on a stunning white-sand beach, with coconut palms leaning out over the vivid turquoise of the Caribbean Sea. And when I say ‘all-inclusive’, it’s a long way from the typical image of long queues at buffet tables for bland ‘International’ dishes, nightly entertainment, noisy activities at the pool and huge, sprawling buildings; apart from a very delicious breakfast buffet (with, of course, omelettes cooked to order), dinner was a choice from a small but interesting menu, and everything was freshly cooked and brought to the table. Along with, of course, free drinks.
Because we were on a Fam Trip, we did actually have to do some ‘work’ each day; you know – visiting some of the world’s top hotels just along the coast (Sandy Lane, Cobbler’s Cove, The Colony Club…), taking a ‘Screamer’ speed-boat ride around the coast at break-neck speed or a more gentle catamaran trip to go snorkelling with barracuda and turtles, playing cricket on a deserted beach at Foul Bay or chasing around for clues in a treasure hunt on the rugged east coast of the island (more of this later)…So one evening, arriving back at the hotel after a strenuous day, a few of us stopped back at the bar for a nightcap. The bar was a wooden-roofed open-air affair – next to the pool and close to the beach. It was quite late – no-one else was in the bar – and we realised the lovely, smiley barman was about to close up for the night. “It’s no problem!” he said, “I’m not closin’ up yet! What can I get for you, ladies?” (all spoken, of course, in that lovely, lilty Caribbean sing-song accent)! I was the last to order: “A Margarita, please”, I said. The barman had already started arranging the glasses and bottles on the bar as he asked me: “Do you want a frozen one?” “No, an ordinary one, please”, I replied.
We sat down, and a few moments later he brought the drinks for the others. “Yours won’t be long”, he said to me. No problem – there were worse things to be doing than sitting in a bar at midnight in Barbados listening to the waves lapping on the sand and the whistling of the tree frogs, and having a relaxed conversation with friends! I vaguely noticed him scrabbling around behind the bar, making a brief phone call and then hurrying off somewhere. Five minutes later, he returned, carrying a plastic container, and as he emptied the contents into a blender, I vaguely heard him muttering apologies to me. I was in no rush, and assumed he’d had something urgent to do. It wasn’t until he came over to me with my cocktail – beautifully presented, the glass rimmed with sugar and a huge strawberry, that he explained why my drink took so long…”I’m really sorry,” he said, “I thought I had some strawberries in the fridge but they’d all gone; so I had to get them from the kitchen….but the kitchen was locked up for the night, so I had to call the Duty Chef, who’d gone to bed, and he had to let me into the kitchen, and so I managed to get the strawberries…..so I’m really sorry to keep you waiting, but….HERE IS YOUR STRAWBERRY MARGARITA!”
He misheard me say “ordinary”; he thought I’d said “strawberry”….!
It was an absolutely delicious cocktail, but I felt so guilty for making him go to so much trouble, especially as it was all so unnecessary! I thanked him profusely, of course, and apologised for having kept him up later than usual, but he just smiled and said “No problem, ladies….I’ll see you all tomorrow!” (sing-song voice, again), and ambled off to bed, leaving us to enjoy our cocktails in the warm night breeze and watching the moon flicker through the palm trees….


Everyone we met on the island was so kind and helpful. Our planned activities included a motorised treasure hunt; each team of four people was given a set of directions to different locations on the island, where we had to either find the answer to a question or collect something to bring back with us. Cars were sent off at five minute intervals, and the three girls I was with were great fun – we had such a laugh as we headed off, windows down, hair blowing in the breeze, sunglasses on and smelling of suntan oil. We started on the more touristy west coast of the island, but the directions led us towards the east coast; initially past fields and through small villages, but gradually we found ourselves climbing higher until we came to a spectacular avenue of mahogany trees, which formed a dark tunnel at the crest of a hill. The overhanging branches shut out much of the sun, and the air was instantly cooled. But the emerging view from the other end of the tunnel of trees was spectacular: unfolding in front of us was the wild, windswept east coast, bathed in sunshine, and the azure sea, flecked with white surf. The rugged coastline seemed to go on for miles, and little pastel coloured wooden houses were dotted randomly around the hills. We stopped the car and stepped out to take in the scenery.
Our directions led us to a particular spot and the next clue: we had to find a cannon. At this point, we had no idea where we might find a cannon and could see nothing that was going to help us, apart from some seemingly unrelated road signs. We’d been given maps, but they showed no obvious clues, and there was nobody around to ask. While we stood there, scratching our heads and wondering which direction to try, a little truck drove past us, slowed and reversed. Two workmen got out, quite dirty in mud-spattered overalls, and asked if we were lost. We explained what we were looking for, but it obviously didn’t ring any bells to them, either. They apologised for not being able to help and went off on their way. We decided to head off down the least rugged track, hoping that all would become clear at some point, but after a good 20 minutes of driving around, we were beginning to realise that we might have to give up and move on to the next clue. We looked at the map again (by now we were clearly not where we should have been), and soon realised that the same two workmen in their little truck had pulled up behind us. For a brief moment I imagined the news reports on the BBC (“Four Travel Agents Missing Presumed Drowned or Kidnapped on Luxury Island…”!) but they had big smiles on their faces. “We found your cannon!” they beamed. After they’d passed us the first time, they apparently went searching on their own, found the cannon, and went back to where they’d first seen us, only to find that we’d gone. They then drove around until they found us again!
They asked us to follow them in the car, and they drove for about 5 minutes until they stopped beside an old cannon, partly covered with plants and branches. We got out of our car to thank them, but they were already driving away, smiling, waving and wishing us luck with our treasure hunt! We have no idea who they were or where they were working; we don’t know if they even heard us thank them as they drove off. But we marked the cannon on our map, completed the treasure hunt, and joined the other agents at the rendezvous point, a weather-beaten, windswept beach bar, its curtains billowing in the breeze and its cocktails long and cool. The workmen could have driven off and got on with their day, but they had taken the time and trouble to go out of their way to help us, and it just seemed so typical of Bajan hospitality.

I’m desperate to go back to Barbados, and our short trip (just five nights!) was filled with so many wonderful memories that will stay with me forever; but the enduring memory will be the happy, friendly people, who are always smiling……

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Wait For It! …At last: Hamilton!

 

Lin and me!

 

Anyone who knows me has been hearing, for the past year, how completely excited I’ve been to have secured one of the first release of the much-prized tickets for the London production of the show that has taken the USA by storm. ‘Hamilton – An American Musical’ has won numerous awards across the pond (11 Tonys in 2016), and the genius who wrote the music and lyrics, as well as starring in the title role for the original Broadway production, has become the new Big Cheese of musical theatre.
Lin Manuel Miranda, an American of Puerto Rican descent, had already been ‘discovered’ by British musical theatre fans when ‘In the Heights’ (which, again, he wrote and starred in in the U.S. production) was shown at the King’s Cross Theatre in London for a short run. I’d heard the buzz about Lin and the show itself through social media, and I was excited to be going to see it, a show offering a mix of rap, hip-hop and Latino music, with a nod to West Side Story. I wasn’t sure that I’d like it (I don’t really ‘get’ rap and hip-hop, but I do love Latin rhythms; and West Side Story has always been my favourite musical of all time). Off I went, on my own, to King’s Cross, and although I wondered if I’d made a mistake for the first few minutes, I was soon bowled over by the energy, passion, choreography and sheer exuberance of the show. Somehow, the hip-hop worked, the rap made sense. I left with a huge smile on my face, wishing I could have climbed up on the narrow stage (once a railway platform!) and dance along to the salsa and merengue rhythms…
Soon, early references to Lin’s new show were appearing on YouTube, along with clips of teenage girls (wearing yellow, pink and green dresses!) singing their version of ‘The Schuyler Sisters’. The idea for the ‘Hamilton’ musical came about when Lin read Ron Chernow’s biography about the man whose face appears on the American $10 bank note: Alexander Hamilton was “…a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence….”, but through his incredible work ethic and superior intellect became one of America’s Founding Fathers, a major player in the American Revolution against British rule in the late 18th century, and a trusted advisor to George Washington. Hamilton’s story is all the more pertinent now in an America where Trump appears to have a problem with the diverse culture of what is supposed to be the Land of the Free, and Lin clearly saw how Hamilton’s story would resonate with a modern audience. But this was to be no stuffy history lesson; Lin wanted to tell this story using his language and his rhythms. Instead of the performers gracefully stepping hand in hand to chamber music, they use a fusion of street dance, ballet, hip-hop and reggaetón, with a nod to Bob Fosse. The lyrics are modern, clever, dirty and funny….and there are SO many words jam-packed into most of those songs! The timbered stage set is ingenious and the lighting design is beautiful. Costumes, at least for the main characters, are pretty much as you’d expect for the period setting, but the stripped down versions worn by the ensemble cast give them their own identity, almost as if they’re a Greek chorus; if you can tear your eyes away from the main performers and watch the ensemble, you will see how they add far more to the story than most background players.
I don’t want to spoil the story for anyone not familiar with Alexander Hamilton’s life, loves and untimely death; you can look him up on Wikipedia and find out exactly what he did and how he died. His story itself is fascinating, but the show brings his story to life in such a way that no history books ever could. It’s a work of pure genius, thanks mostly to Lin Manuel Miranda, but also because of the people he chose to work with: David Korins’ stage design, Paul Tazewell’s costumes, Andy Blankenbuehler’s stunning choreography, Howell Binkley’s clever lighting and Nevin Steinberg’s sound design, with orchestration and music supervision by Alex Lacamoire – all adding layer upon layer of depth and wit and magic. I can’t help thinking that something similar happened when Leonard Bernstein, Jerome Robbins, Stephen Sondheim and Arthur Laurents all got together to create ‘West Side Story’. As you watch the show, you want to rewind to take in all the details.
I bought my ticket almost a year ago, having pounced on the Ticketmaster website the second the Pre-sale tickets became available – a tense, nailbiting transaction, waiting to see if I would be one of the lucky ones; I was! The Victoria Palace Theatre was being completely rebuilt and refurbished for the show, and I’d managed to bag a ticket for the preview period at the beginning of December; but having passed the theatre several times during the late summer, still clad in plastic sheeting and scaffolding, it came as no surprise when Ticketmaster had to contact those of us with early tickets to advise that the theatre wouldn’t be ready in time. More stress followed as I went through the process of waiting to see what other date Ticketmaster could offer me, and ultimately relief when I secured a better seat for the 30th December. I had scheduled a day off work on December 6th, and as this also happened to be the night of the first Preview performance, I thought it might be nice to go to London and hang around near the Victoria Palace, to see if I could spot any of the stars and catch some of the excitement in the air. It was a bitterly cold night, but a little group of us stood near the Stage Door, jealously watching from a distance all the lucky ticket holders who would be the first to see the show. Cameron Mackintosh was darting around the entrance, tweaking some last minute embellishments to the theatre’s beautiful façade. One of the girls standing with me said that Lin Manuel Miranda had been seen going into the theatre earlier, where we were sure he was being interviewed and photographed, but we hoped we’d spot a few cast members coming and going. And we did – Cleve September stopped for a photo, and Giles Terera, Michael Jibson and even

With Cleve September.

Jamael Westman (Alexander Hamilton) passed by. After about two hours, feeling raw from the cold and ready to all go our separate ways, there was a sudden flurry of activity as our little group slowly realised what was happening: Lin himself had sneaked out of the Stage Door and had come to see us! He explained that he could only stop for a few moments – he was going to dinner before the show – but he happily took charge of taking selfies with each of us, while commenting on the freezing wind, before dashing back into the theatre. I couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, but it had – I had the photo to prove it! One of the girls was so overwhelmed that she sank to the floor, which prompted one of the theatre marketing team to come over and ask if she needed help! I must have looked like such an idiot, grinning from ear to ear as I skipped off to hunt for my poor husband (who, strangely, hadn’t been that bothered about spending two hours in the freezing wind outside the theatre)!
I had been listening – every day, on my drive to and from work – to the original Broadway cast recording of the show (with Lin himself playing Hamilton), and knew most of the lyrics. I worried that the British cast wouldn’t sound right; I’d fallen in love with the Broadway cast – the Brits might not sing in the same way; they’d have different voices! As winter closed in, I had visions of a massive snowfall on the night before the show, stopping me from getting to London on the day. Maybe I should book a hotel the night before? I ate tons of fruit, to build up my defences against all the coughs and colds that everyone around me was suffering from. And what was I going to wear? My plans of ivory coloured leggings, shirt and waistcoat – like the ensemble costumes – were thwarted by a complete lack of suitable waistcoats in the local charity shops! I seem to have Hamilton tunes in my brain about 80% of the time, and I have to suppress the urge to use Hamilton quotes in day to day conversation (friend: “I bought these shoes in London…”; me: “All the way from London! Damn!”). Anything displayed in yellow, pink and green together – a bunch of flowers, three cupcakes on a plate – immediately makes me think of the Schuyler sisters. What’s wrong with me?! I’m not a teenager; I shouldn’t be obsessed like this! But this is how Hamilton gets you – the more you hear, the more you watch, the more you discover…the more you realise just how important and groundbreaking and brilliant ‘Hamilton’ is.
So; the big day has arrived.
My big-enough-for-a-theatre-programme handbag was packed the night before and triple-checked when I woke up. Ticketmaster are using a ‘paperless’ system for ‘Hamilton’ ticket sales: unless you can show your confirmation email, the bank card used to pay for your ticket AND your passport, you don’t get into the theatre. The weather was chilly (especially as it was very early and still dark), but I wasn’t snowed in and there were no traffic delays, so I arrived at Victoria in plenty of time. So far, so good! I had a peep at the theatre (still there!) before going for some breakfast nearby – I made it last as long as possible as I didn’t want to wander too far from the theatre, and there was still three hours to go before the show started.
By 12.30 I could stay away no longer. It was now an hour before the suggested arrival time, but already there were about 30 people ahead of me in the cordoned off queueing area. Security staff checked that I had a booking for the performance, and a sniffer dog (a cute spaniel) was paraded up and down the rapidly growing line. Ushers worked their way through the waiting people, checking that we all had our emailed confirmation with matching passports and bank cards. Then the doors opened; we shuffled through, our bags were checked and my bank card was put through a card reader by an usher who printed out my ticket. MY TICKET!! – I’d been waiting for this moment for a whole year, and now I was finally here, in The Room Where It Happens, with an actual ticket in my hand! I trotted off to the Merchandise stall ahead of the rush (third in line – I’d have need a lottery win to afford all the goodies I wanted, but luckily I had been given ‘Merch Money’ as a Christmas present!), so I was able to get a Tee Shirt, a tote bag, the Broadway cast brochure and the London cast programme. Still with time to kill, I had a chance to look at the beautifully restored interior of this lovely theatre. It was very elegant, with lots of sparkly chandeliers, gold-framed mirrors, lavish drapes at the windows, old posters on the walls; and I was very impressed by the ladies’ toilets (which is something you don’t often hear from female London theatregoers!) – they were spacious and elegant, and fully in keeping with the overall look of the theatre. And the Front of House staff were absolutely lovely: friendly, helpful, and clearly enjoying the buzz of being among so many excited people and being part of the experience!


It was time; time to find my seat – Royal Circle, row H, seat 40. It’s right at the end of the row, so I was worried that I’d be squeezed against a wall with a severely restricted view of the stage. But my worries were completely unfounded; there were wide steps to the left of me, plenty of leg room, and the seats were staggered and tiered, so that there was a clear view over the heads of the people in front of me. And there before me was the incredible stage. I’d seen many photos of it, but now I could see how much detail there was: nooks and crannies filled with oil lamps, coils of rope and bottles; arched openings showed glimpses of stone and brick walls behind, and clever lighting suggested sunlight breaking through loose timbers high up. A balcony ran from one side of the stage to the other, supporting two wooden stairways. The auditorium filled up; not a single empty seat. The excited chatter continued until the lights dimmed. Then there was silence.
Onto the stage walks Sifiso Mazibuko, standing in for Giles Terera as Aaron Burr. Those first few notes….and then “How does a bastard orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman…”. And here we are, finally, rapt with excitement, hardly believing that we’re actually doing this. The songs are the same as I’ve heard so many times, but sung by different voices, stressing different words and different notes, and bringing whole new meanings to the lyrics. Most of us know the words but have never heard them quite like this; the same but different. As Jamael Westman strides to centre stage and sings “Alexander Hamilton; my name is Alexander Hamilton”, I feel like the whole audience, as a single entity, is holding its breath. As the story I thought I knew so well played out before my eyes, a whole new show was being revealed. The show I thought I was going to watch was full of actions, expressions and clever visual moments that I just hadn’t expected. To see Thomas Jefferson flouncing across the stage, and the look on King George’s face as he sings, and the mechanics of the duel scenes…the whole show was a revelation. And there are famous little highlights that the fans are waiting for: you could almost feel the audience’s anticipation just before Lafayette and Hamilton’s line “Immigrants – we get the job done!”…at which point I swear the whole audience was clapping inside! We know the story, we know how it’s going to end, and judging by the number of people reaching into their handbags to grab a handful of tissues in the second half, we knew there’d be tears. I know the danger points, for me; “It’s Quiet Uptown” starts me off, but the gut-wrenching part is a particular key change while Eliza sings in the Finale, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story”. I knew it was coming, and I blubbed like a baby. I don’t know if it was the song itself, or the knowledge that my first ‘Hamilton’ was almost over, but I didn’t want it to end. As the final notes died away, there was stunned silence from the audience, long enough for a moment on the stage that I hadn’t expected. Then the applause started, and it was loud and completely heartfelt and absolutely gushing. Everybody stood as the incredible cast spread out across the width of the stage, recovering from the performance they’d just given and looking almost surprised by the reaction of the crowd.
And it was over. I think I’d lost the ability to speak. I didn’t want to break the spell and leave the theatre. But eventually, after the orchestra (my God, they did an amazing job!) had played us out, it was time to brace the chilly December air and get back to reality. As I stepped outside into the night to join the crowd waiting by the stage door, I could see a few people already hovering around the main entrance ready to queue for the evening performance. Some of the wonderful cast came out for a chat and to sign programmes – Cleve September (Lafayette and Jefferson), Leslie Garcia Bowman (Charles Lee and ensemble), Obiama Ugoala (Washington) and Michael Jibson (King George) were all very generous with their time, especially after the energy they’d just put into their performances and the fact that they would have to do it all again in a couple of hours. Eventually the performers went off for some hard-earned food and the stage door fans wandered away. I hung around a bit longer, not really wanting to leave the glow of the theatre yet. I noticed Jamael Westman, very tall, wrapped in scarves and a hat, rushing purposefully towards Victoria station from the Stage Door. The security guard manning the door (who later told me his name was Sean) called quietly to me “That was Hamilton, you know?” “I know”, I replied, “but I think he wanted to eat”. We chatted about the show, about his brother and my son (who had both trained in musical theatre), and about how cold it was. I told him I was going to go, but he said “Jamael will be back in a minute; …in fact, I think that’s him now…” I had my programme open at the right page, my pen ready. “Excuse me, Jamael”, I asked tentatively, expecting to be told “Sorry, I don’t have time…”; but the lovely Jamael Westman, star of the biggest show to hit London for years, smiled, stopped, and said “Of course I’ll sign your programme! Did you enjoy the show?”
Yes, I enjoyed the show. ‘Hamilton’ has somehow taken over my brain (and my soul) for the last year, and to say that the show vastly exceeded all my expectations is a massive understatement. It was sublime, exciting, incredibly clever, excruciatingly sad and probably the best piece of theatre I will ever see in my life. I’ll be seeing it again in July, and this time my husband will be coming with me.

I can’t wait!

Info: Victoria Palace Theatre, Victoria Street, London SW1E 5EA: http://www.victoriapalacetheatre.co.uk . Nearest tube: Victoria.

Tickets – if you can find any – are ONLY available through Ticketmaster: https://m.ticketmaster.co.uk. There is also a daily lottery where lucky winners can win one or two seats for £10 each. Details available via the ‘Hamilton’ page of Ticketmaster’s website. The theatre does offer returns for sale just before a performance; a long queue waits hopefully to the left of the theatre prior to every show!

#Hamilton #London #VictoriaPalace #LinManuelMiranda #WaitForIt

Arriving in Palma

We’ve been to Mallorca several times, albeit quite a few years ago, when our sons were young. We would fly into Palma with Thomson Airlines or Air 2000, be herded onto a waiting bus, then spend about an hour and a half listening to the ‘Welcome Speech’ by some bored transfer rep while desperately holding sick bags under the chins of our green-faced, travel-sick children. We’d arrive at Puerto Pollensa, a beautiful little traditional beach resort up in the north east of the island, loaded down with suitcases, kids’ backpacks, sunhats and (on our first visit) a pushchair.
This trip was a very different experience. For a start, I’ve become quite on expert on frugal packing over the last few years, and can easily pack all I need for a two week city break in one piece of hand luggage. We booked the flights with Ryanair, the centrally located hostal through Booking.com, and knew that we would easily be able to manage with public transport and our feet to get from the airport to our base for the next week. We did our homework, checked the necessary bus route online, and printed out useful maps. Without the encumbrance of suitcases and tired toddlers, this would be a doddle.
What I hadn’t allowed for was the fact that I just wasn’t familiar with Palma.
I knew what the cathedral looked like, and I knew it was virtually on the seafront in the old part of the city. I knew our hostal was in the maze of little streets nearby. I knew that we had to get off the bus by a park at the Placa de la Feixina on the Avinguda Argentina. But the airport bus took such a long, meandering route to get into and around the city, and because we passed absolutely nothing on that route that I was able to recognise, I was seriously beginning to wonder if I’d somehow managed to choose the wrong bus.
Eventually, though, we were driving alongside what looked (from the map) like the park near our hostal, so we jumped off the bus and marched off in what we knew was the right direction. Unfortunately, the map I’d printed was no help whatsoever, as most of the tiny streets in the Old Quarter weren’t labelled and the roads that were didn’t bear any resemblance to what we were seeing around us. The fact that I hate having to use a map (simply because it clearly marks me out as a tourist!) made me reluctant to have to stop and check our bearings – or worse still, ask somebody! – but we stopped, got our bearings as best we could, and decided that if we turned right at the next road we’d at least end up by the sea and could work out from there where to aim for. “What did you say the hostal was called?”, my husband asked, after about half an hour of aimless wandering. “Hostal Pons”, I replied; “Oh…..that one there, then?” he said, pointing down the road we’d not only just stopped at, but had also been past several times already.
The Hostal Pons, tucked away in Carrer del Vi, is….well,…..quirky! We guessed this from the descriptions and reviews online, but we knew, as soon as we stepped through the entrance into the pretty little whitewashed courtyard that this was no ordinary hostal. The colourful tiled staircase up to the first floor (where the Reception is located) is dotted with pot plants, and at the top of the stairs a cat was nonchalantly draped over a wooden chair. Bikes leaned against the courtyard wall, and straight ahead was an archway through which we could see flowers and greenery lit by the strong sunshine.
We went up the stairs – the cat ignored us completely – and found the hostal’s Reception desk. A man appeared from nowhere, and after checking in he gave us a brief guided tour of the building. There were stairs leading up to a small rooftop garden, and a cluttered communal kitchen area where we could help ourselves to fridge space and utensils. A couple of communal rooms, full of taxidermy, old dolls, oil paintings and ornaments, made us feel like we were in a cross between an antique shop and an elderly aunt’s house.
Then we were shown our room. In the centre, a large bed covered with a heavy cotton monogrammed bedspread; a set of shelves and rails in dark wood made a wardrobe area, and an old dressing table stood next to the tall window. On the wall, to the left of the bed, the head of the Virgin Mary gazed down judgementally. Leading off from the bedroom (through a curtained archway) was a bathroom with a shower and toilet. We opened the windows and let the sounds and sunlight from the little lane below seep into the room; time to say hello to the city!
We quickly freshened ourselves up, changed into cooler clothes and off we went. I love that first exploratory venture into a new place; senses are heightened, so you notice the sounds of the birds and the echo of voices further down the street. You smell flowers, coffee, garlic, cologne; you feel the late sun on your face as you emerge from the narrow, shaded street into a little square; you notice the cobbled, uneven pavements, the lettering on the street signs, the wrought iron balconies, the cats curled in doorways, the chit-chat from pavement cafes and tapas bars where waiters are setting up tables ready for pre-dinner drinks and nibbles. You hear the sticky sound of car tyres gripping on the hot road and a radio blaring out Latino music from an apartment. Ah, Spain, how I love you! We make our way towards what we guess is the city centre, along a street lined with restaurants and bars, until we come to the Passeig del Born – a tree-lined promenade with traffic on either side leading from a fountain close to the beautiful Seu (cathedral) to the main shopping street. By now, the sun is lower in the sky, and the heat of the day is subsiding. We wander up and down the Paseo, admiring the balcony windows jutting from the beautiful Art Nouveau buildings, the statues, the fountain and the stunning cathedral soaring up behind the palm trees. We discover where Palma’s ‘El Corte Ingles’ department store is located, we check out the various ‘Heladerias’ (Spanish ice cream is wonderful!) which we will need to try out during the week, and we make a note of several ‘Pastelerias’, their windows adorned with fruit tarts, different types of bread, fabulous cakes and massive ‘Ensaimadas’, big, soft brioche-like pinwheels, drenched in icing sugar and packed into pretty hexagonal boxes and given as gifts to family and friends.
We’re hot and hungry, so we start to glance at menus as we pass different restaurants. They’re all inviting, but for now we want something quick and cheap, preferably accompanied by a few glasses of something refreshing and alcoholic. I do like to try the local cuisine, but we ended up coming back, eventually, to the street leading back to our hostal, to a busy little pizza restaurant with really good-looking (and delicious smelling) pizzas and cheap jugs of sangria. It was still a little early to eat by Spanish standards, but the place was already crowded so we were given the last table, up on the mezzanine overlooking the bar and the other diners, and right in front of the kitchen. The owner came and took our order, and we watched him down at the bar mixing a VERY potent jug of sangria, while through the serving hatch into the kitchen next to us, we watched a really hard-working chef create magic with pizza dough and delicious toppings. The meal was perfect; the pizzas were as good as any I’ve eaten in Italy, and with a decent mixed salad and some garlic bread, all washed down with copious amounts of good sangria, we left the restaurant feeling full, happy and just very slightly squiffy.
We still needed to unpack (and have a cool shower!), but the sun had gone down and the city had come to life. The fountain at the end of the Passeig del Born was lit up, and old-fashioned wrought-iron street lamps twinkled behind the leaves of the trees lining the road. The cathedral was bathed in soft yellow floodlights, and palm leaves were silhouetted in front of its ornate facades, beneath a crescent moon in the clear, darkening sky. Lights were on in all the shops and restaurants, and looking up we could catch glimpses of ornate chandeliers inside the balconied windows in some of the art nouveau buildings lining the Passeig. Outside every café and restaurant, the tables were filling up with groups of friends, families, lovers and tourists, but we wandered through the narrow lanes back to the hostal to unpack and have a shower. In the street below us, we heard snatches of conversations from people passing by, and with our cabin bags emptied, clothes folded or hung up, toiletries lined up in the bathroom and phones charging, we stumbled into bed, tired but excited, beneath the saintly gaze of the Madonna….

 

Info:     Hostal Pons, Carre del Vi, 8, 07012, Palma de Mallorca, Spain.      hostalpons.com.

Pizzeria Giovanini, Calle Apuntadors, 4, 07012, Palma de Mallorca, Spain.  http://www.pizzeriagiovanini.com.

Chania harbour – first impressions of Crete

“Thank you for coming with me!”, said my lovely Aunty Pam as the Easyjet flight touched down at Chania airport in Crete. Pam had stayed in Chania as part of a group holiday a couple of years ago, and was keen to show me why she’d loved it so much – and she was happy to pay for both of us if I took on the job of booking the flights and hotel; how could I refuse?!
We had that wonderful moment of stepping out of the plane into the hot midday sun, having left a rather miserable London in the chilly early hours. As we found the bus that would take us into Chania town we were peeling off our extra layers, fanning ourselves with our flight tickets and willing the aircon into life.
I love the journey out of a foreign airport – I love to see signs and posters in a language that I don’t understand, and local people going about their normal lives. What I hadn’t expected to see was the range of mountains on the horizon, with their snow-covered peaks sparkling in the hot sun! As we neared Chania town, Pam started to recognise some of the landmarks, and she knew exactly where to go when the bus pulled into the bus station.
We’d only brought hand luggage, so the 10 minute walk to our little hotel near the sea was an easy journey. We passed inviting ice cream shops and patisseries, fascinating little craft shops and the usual tourist shops, full of olive oil soaps and postcards. “Almost there”, said Pam, and a few moments later we emerged onto the beautiful, picture-book little harbour, with a strong wind carrying the scent of salt and fish through the air, whipping my hair into a mass of tangles and forcing the little waves to slap against the harbour walls.
We needed to cool down, and the hotel wasn’t expecting us for another half an hour; plenty of time for us to relax with a cold drink and enjoy the view. The harbour is full of cafes and restaurants, all with their tables under shady awnings, all with waiters trying to tempt us in. We opted for a restaurant claiming to offer ‘the best frappe in Chania’ and enjoyed half an hour of watching the world go by before the short walk to our hotel to check in.
The ‘Antica Casa Studios’ are a minute’s walk from the harbour, close to the entrance to the Maritime Museum. We dragged our trolleys across the bumpy cobbles up the sloping alley, and found our studios, where Maria was sitting at the entrance waiting for us. We followed her up the steep, winding stairs to our room on the second floor (making a mental note that we wouldn’t want to do this after a few glasses of retsina!) and, after signing the paperwork and a chat with Maria, we were free to kick off our shoes and change into something cooler!
We started off by opening the shutters and doors onto the tiny balcony, furnished with a couple of chairs and a little metal table – perfect for a swift drink before dinner or a glass of juice in the morning. From here we could see down the alley to the sea, just visible and sparkling between the colourful little buildings. The warm breeze rippled through the flowers on the balcony and made the curtains sway behind us. The studio was quite large, with tall ceilings and tasteful décor. It had a tiny kitchen, with a hotplate, fridge and sink, and a small bathroom with a bathtub and shower. Once we’d unpacked our cases (it doesn’t take long when you only have cabin bags!) we decided to go straight out for a wander around the pretty little streets and the picturesque harbour. Dressed more comfortably now in sandals and sunglasses, it was time to get to know Chania…..

 

Info: Antica Casa Studios, Chania, Crete – http://www.simplychania.gr/antica.html

Easter in Corfu

Flying into the little airport just outside Corfu Town is one of those fairly spectacular descents that adds just a tinge of uncertainty to the fabulous views – we banked over the mountain tops behind the little resort of Benitses (where we would be staying) and skimmed over the causeway crossing the bay before the steep descent onto the tiny runway, which ends metres from one of the main roads out of the town.

My sister, Julia, met us from the airport with her daughters, Lettie and Ellie (11 and 8 at the time), and whisked us away to a café for a much needed cold drink, then on into Corfu Town to the huge, green Plateia Leonida Vlachou, a kind of park-cum-town square. It was late April; the sun was streaming down, and we stood among the few trees, with the breeze drifting in from the nearby sea making the leaves dance above our heads. Earlier in the day, which was Palm Sunday, the relics of St Spyridon had been paraded through the nearby streets and the accompanying processions were still going on, with each local church represented by priests, nuns and local authority representatives carrying relics and icons, and brass bands (the Philharmonics, as they are known) following on. We relaxed there for a while, listening to the sounds and watching the different processions, before Julia drove us to our hotel in Benitses, about 8km from Corfu Town, so that we could check in.

At this time of year, Corfu is absolutely beautiful. The weather is hot, but there is still a freshness to the breeze, when it comes. Everything is green, with flowers blooming everywhere, and the beaches are not yet full of tourists. We spent our first day in and around Benitses itself, buying bottled water, juice and breakfast brioches from the tiny local supermarket, walking around the little marina and watching the yachts bobbing up and down serenely in the rippling water, eating ice creams and following a path up into the mountain behind the town. From up there we could look down over the coastline, so serene and peaceful.

We knew the week ahead was going to be busy. We wanted to spend some time with Julia and her family (she’s lived on Corfu for many years now, with a Greek husband and their two beautiful bi-lingual daughters); but we also wanted to spend a bit of time exploring on our own, and to find out what Easter was like on the island. We already knew quite a bit: the whole week leading up to Easter Sunday in Corfu is based around preparations for what is, as in many Mediterranean countries, the most important religious festival of the year, and the associated traditions and religious (and non-religious) activities are taken very seriously. While most of us in the UK will be stockpiling hot cross buns and overpriced, over-packaged chocolate (mostly egg-shaped, but I swear I saw a chocolate Easter dinosaur the other day!), the Corfiot population will be buying ingredients to cook traditional local dishes, decorating candles and attending special concerts, poetry recitals and church services. In the Liston, a park opposite a beautiful, long colonnaded building in the town, local bands will practise parading up and down, and special brioche-type Easter loaves (fogatses) and almond and honey flavoured macaroons (mandolato) will start appearing in the windows of bakers’ shops. Lettie and Ellie had been busy decorating candles for Colin and I – mine had a picture of Tinkerbell on it! – and later in the week (Maundy Thursday, traditionally) they would be dying eggs red. These red eggs are used to decorate the fogatses, and children also like to bang their red eggs together to see whose egg holds out for longest before the shell breaks.

Easter celebrations really escalate on Good Friday. Each church decorates a symbolic funeral bier (epitafios) with flowers and embroidered images of Christ. Following the ceremony, each of the epitafios is taken out of the church, followed by the priest, the congregation and a brass band. In Corfu Town alone there are more than 25 epitafios processions and they all converge in the centre of the town, with the procession from the Orthodox Cathedral at 10pm being the final and most important and impressive of all. By this time, darkness has fallen; the Venetian lights all the way along the Liston are coloured purple as a sign of mourning, and the local Philharmonics each traditionally play specific funereal music.

The atmosphere now is something very special. The balconies of the surrounding hotels and apartments are full of people, leaning out to get a better view of the spectacle marching slowly along the street. A TV camera is held high by a small crane, sending live images to people in little remote villages all over the island. Every outside table of every bar and restaurant has been taken, people having staked their places hours before. The streets are packed, and we are hemmed in by bodies in every direction. Small children have been lifted onto Daddy’s shoulders, and camera flashes blink constantly. The polished brass of the bands’ instruments reflects the lights all around, as they play the deep, sombre notes of Abinoni’s “Adagio” or Mariani’s “Sventuro”. You feel as well as hear the slow, heavy drumbeats, and as the procession passes by, lit by hundreds of raised, flickering candles, there is a sense of something shared; something important and moving.

The music and the drumbeat eventually dies away, and the chatter among the crowd starts up again, having quelled during the final procession. The crowd disperses – parents take young children home to bed, couples wander off to bars and we head off for the last bus back to Benitses. It’s very tempting to stay longer, to breathe in a little more of the atmosphere of this special, balmy night, but we have to be up early in the morning.

A quick breakfast of brioche, coffee and orange juice on our terrace looking out over the rooftops of Benitses to the sea beyond, and then it’s off to the bus for the 20 minute ride back into Corfu Town. We’re meeting Julia, Lettie and Ellie to witness something unique and very special, something which only takes place in Corfu, and only on Easter Saturday. We’ve arrived early, so we lose ourselves in the little back streets, following the distant sound of music to a little square where a band is playing something beautiful, atmospheric and intensely moving. It’s one of those perfect moments, when you know you’re in exactly the right place at the right time, and we share this moment with people of all ages, entranced by the music.

We meet Julia and the girls back at the Plateia, where crowds have already gathered; many people are carrying little clay pots, which we’d noticed for sale all over the city in the preceding days. We push through the crowds to a spot at the southern end of the Liston, close to several apartment buildings. Once again, the balconies are packed solid, many of them with red cloths draped over them. At 6 o’clock that morning, we could have gone to the church of Panogio ton Xenon (the Madonna of Foreigners) to see a re-creation of the earthquake which, according to Orthodox scriptures, took place at the moment of Christ’s resurrection. At 9am, another procession had wound it’s way through the streets, with it’s epitafios, it’s funereal music and it’s relics, which we’d also missed.

At 11 am on the dot, the mood changes. Up on the balconies and window ledges, clay pots of all shapes and sizes are appearing. You can feel the excitement and anticipation spreading through the crowd like a breeze; cameras and phones are held high, and fingers point towards a large pot, the size of a head, as it’s pushed over the balcony to the street below (the area beneath the buildings has been cleared of people, obviously). Gradually, as we watch, we see pots falling all over the place – we’re speechless at the craziness of it, our eyes darting backwards and forwards as we try to catch sight of the biggest ones just at the point of no return. After a few minutes, a particularly tall pot is hoisted onto the railings of a balcony. It must be about 70cms tall, and pretty heavy. You can almost imagine it’s owner making a speech, in his head, to the crowd: “Hey, look everybody, look at my pot! Is it not bigger and heavier than all the other pots? Look how tall, how beautiful it is! Watch me as I send my tall, heavy, beautiful pot crashing to the ground and marvel as it explodes into a million pieces…..!!” The crowd has noticed the pot, and the crowd is impressed. People nudge each other and point, cameras are poised and a murmur of appreciation ripples through us all like a wave. It is, indeed, a Very Fine Pot. The Pot Man knows that this is his moment; and with a gentle flick of the wrist, he pushes the pot over the edge and it smashes on the ground, out of sight. I expect a round of applause, but the crowd is already looking for something bigger and better.  More pots, some full of water, tumble down, and we try (mostly unsuccessfully) to capture the moment on our cameras.

Suddenly our eyes are drawn upwards. On the top floor of one of the buildings a massive red pot has appeared, bigger than any we’d seen before. It’s huge. I imagine the previous Big Pot Man seething with jealousy, but I can’t take my eyes off this new pot, the size of a pig, teetering on its ledge high above the watching crowd. It’s owner (who even from this distance I can tell has a smug expression on his face) tilts the pot… ever so slightly…over the edge before easing it back again. “Ooooh!!…”, says the crowd. Cameras once again are held high, and sensing his inner Showman, the Bigger Pot Man nudges it forward again. “Aaaah!!!…” says the crowd, willing the giant red pot to fall……and then down it goes, manhandled over the balcony by a man who will be the toast of the local bars for weeks to come, and it crashes and explodes noisily on the pavement below.

We watch and wait; a few more pots are thrown, but nothing else quite so spectacular. The show is over, for this year. The crowd has been entertained, and the officials allow people back into the area below the buildings. Children scamper forward to collect pieces of broken pottery for luck and everyone ambles off, disappearing slowly into the maze of little streets to find an ice-cold frappe and something to nibble. After a brief lunch, Julia heads off home with the girls (she has food to prepare ready for tomorrow), while Colin and I walk along the seafront, watching the cruise ships gliding towards the harbour, and drinking in the sunshine and the happy chatter all around us, before taking the bus back to Benitses.

As the bus stops, back at Benitses, we see that a small stage area is being erected in the centre of the village; there is a sense of hustle and bustle as we make our way back up the steep little lane to our home for the week, the lovely Argo Studios, where the owners, Anna and Spiros, are keen to hear what we thought of the festivities in the Town. They have kindly left a couple of candles by our bedside (but, of course, we’re going to use the ones the girls made for us). Spiros invites us to join him later that night for a bowl of Magiritsa – a traditional Greek Easter soup, made with lamb offal and lettuce, and usually eaten just after midnight. I decline as politely as I can (even the smell of offal turns my stomach!), but Colin is polite and agrees that he’d love to try a little, later on. But for now we have to get ready; as the sun starts to set, people in little towns and villages all over the island are preparing for candle-lit processions to local churches. Colin and I light the candles that my nieces had so beautifully decorated, and follow family groups and friends up the steep road and steps to the pretty little church; in the twilight, the flickering flames light up happy faces, and while a few of the older people seem more serious, more thoughtful, the general feeling is of contentment, of love and companionship, and of tradition. While many of the people eventually wander into the church, we hover for a while before picking our way down the steps and along the sloping lane back to the village centre. People are ambling around with bottles of beer, children are chasing each other through the trees, toddlers in pushchairs are eating huge, messy ice creams and all the tables under the awnings of the sea-facing restaurants are full of noisy diners. Amazingly, one of Julia’s friends (who I’ve never met before) recognises me among the crowd from Julia’s photos – there’s obviously quite a family resemblance – and we have a brief chat with her and her husband. They seem like lovely people, but they are out to meet up with friends and family (like Julia, they’ve lived on Corfu for many years), so we leave them to enjoy the festivities. Colin and I walk to the front of the harbour; at the stroke of midnight, Corfu Town has a massive firework display, which we’ve been told may be visible from Benitses, all the way around the bay. But apart from a faint glow in the sky in that direction, there’s nothing to see; there are no bangs and whizzes to be heard either – just the sound of water lapping against the low marina walls, the occasional creak and knock of little wooden boats gently bumping together, and the muffled sounds of music and laughter from the village square. We go for a walk to the far end of the village, in the opposite direction from Corfu Town, where the village noise is replaced by chirruping crickets and the occasional barking dog. Nobody seems to be at home; the few houses we pass are in darkness – everyone is in the village, so we turn round and eventually head back to the hotel. Spiros welcomes us back and insists that we sit down at one of the little tables by the pool so that Colin can try the Magiritsa. I choose a cocktail instead, which slides down very nicely, as I watch Colin bravely chewing unrecognisable pieces of sheep’s innards floating in the strong-tasting soup. Spiros offers him more, but he politely declines. I make a mental note to order him to brush his teeth very thoroughly when we get back to our room.

Easter Day; Sunday. After another breakfast on our terrace overlooking the pool, we get the bus the few kilometres along the coast to Julia’s house, where we have been invited to her (extended) family’s Easter lunch at the home of her In-Laws next door; there are aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, and we are introduced to everybody. They are all incredibly welcoming, doing their best to include us in their conversations (we don’t speak Greek, so a lot of the ‘conversation’ involved piling heaps of delicious food on our plates and smiling a lot)! Huge mounds of food have been laid out on a big table on their terrace; we eat roasted goat, salad, spanakopita (spinach in flaky filo pastry), bread and roasted potatoes, while the children race around, returning every few minutes to graze on a little more food before shooting off to play outside again in the hot sun. It’s all delicious, and there’s probably enough here to feed the whole village for a week – I know that, over the last few days, Julia has been cooking bits and pieces to contribute to the feast, as have all the other women in the family. The meal lasts most of the afternoon, and I know that all around the little village – in fact, all over the island – thousands of people are doing exactly the same: sharing good, home-cooked food with their families, enjoying the sunshine, the company, and the sense of tradition. Colin and I feel very honoured to have been invited to share this special occasion with such lovely people.

A couple of days later, we return to the UK. Easter, in all its commercial glory, had been done and dusted; everyone is sick of hot cross buns and Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. To the majority of Britons, Easter has simply been an excuse to eat too much and have a couple of extra days off work. Easter in Britain has become very superficial, very commercialised. Easter in Corfu, on the other hand, has been an experience that will stay with me for a long, long time. It is a celebration of religion, of tradition; of family and of community. I’m not a religious person, but there was definitely something special and spiritual in the Greek celebrations which is sadly lacking in Britain; and I think we, as a nation, are seriously missing out…

Info: We stayed at the lovely Argo Studios and Apartments, Benitses 49084, Corfu, Greece.  http://www.argobenitses.gr

 

A JOURNEY TO SKIPTON

It’s hard to get up early in the morning at this time of year; especially when it’s a Saturday, the day when we usually lounge in bed with a cup of tea and a good book. But this morning I was up just after 5am, grabbing the last few bits to put in my bag. My poor husband had been roped in to drive me to the station for the 06.53 train to Skipton, North Yorkshire, for a girlie weekend with my lovely travel buddies, Shiela and Kate.

We’d all met through the Diverbo/Pueblo Ingles programme in Spain, and we’d all hit it off straight away. Sheila – from California –  is a bit of an Anglophile (who knew?!, as she would say), and she has come over to the UK for a long stretch over the spring and summer, using it as a base to lead groups of tourists on her ‘Britain Your Way’ tours. She often stays in Skipton, and English Kate and I are joining her for a long weekend. I expect laughter, tears, and plenty of naughty food and wine!

My train left on time, and I looked forward to watching the countryside roll by in the early morning sun. Or not; the weather was that particular type of grim grey that makes the whole landscape look like someone has done a beautiful pencil drawing and then rubbed it all out with a dirty rubber. And the word ‘landscape’ can only mean one thing in East Anglia – miles and miles of flat fields , stretching as far as the eye can see to a horizon dotted with the odd clump of trees or ramshackle old farm buildings to break the monotony. On a late summer’s evening, the skies come alive over this part of England, with livid sunsets that fill up the sky and throw pink and gold light across fields of corn and deep green meadows. But this morning everything was just grey.

To add to the fun, there was nowhere close by where I could store my huge flight bag (only just legally sized for budget airlines) – luggage racks were miles away where I couldn’t keep an eye on it, and the rack above the seat was too narrow. I had reserved a seat – I must have accidentally ticked the box on the screen asking if I would like the least possible leg space, rear-facing and between two windows (so I could only see the ‘view’ outside by performing the sort of head rotation only seen in ‘The Exorcist’); a very nice man – middle aged, glasses, man-bag – had apparently reserved the seat next to mine, and we immediately struck up a conversation. Well, he did, mostly. He told me when he’d bought his ticket, how much he paid, how he’d tried to split the journey to make it cheaper, why he was going to Grantham (to pick up a car – a Suzuki –  for his wife, who doesn’t like driving), and how they’d spent a lovely weekend in Lincoln a while back. He also told me he planned to move across the aisle to a front-facing window seat, if no-one else claimed it. Luckily, no-one else did, and I also moved across, to the seat behind his, with a little more window and amazingly a bit more legroom, too.

Through the grey gloom outside I did manage to spot quite a lot of wildlife; typically of East Anglia there were several fields of happy-looking pigs, lolling around their little tin shacks, but also several deer (a small herd in one place, grazing at the edge of a clump of tall pine trees) and pair of graceful swans, gliding up from an irrigation channel in the Fens.

At Ely, the train went into reverse, so I was no longer facing the direction of travel; I don’t know why this should be less pleasant, but somehow it is. Maybe it’s psychological – it seems more positive to be looking forward, and catching a first glimpse of what’s to come, rather than seeing things that you’ve already passed speed away into the distance.

Somewhere between March and Whittlesea, I think, we crossed huge areas of water, dotted with tiny islands of reeds. Somehow the grey water sparkled just a little in places, reflecting the odd little ray of sunlight breaking through the grey sky above. It made a change from muddy fields….

At Peterborough, I changed trains and platforms to board Virgin Trains service to Leeds. I wandered along the platform, which had been helpfully marked so that you knew where exactly to wait for your particular carriage. Standing by a bench, ready for carriage C, I was aware of a group of four or five men nearby, who I assumed must have been off for a day of birdwatching (we were in Fen country, and they all had big, impressive cameras and binoculars – one of them had even brought his own fold-up chair); it was only when they all trotted over towards the edge of the platform and started squealing excitedly as a “…41299, D-class..!” came rolling through that I realised they were spotting trains, not birds. “What time did you get here, Malcolm?” one of them asked after the excitement had passed by. “Oh, I only got here half an hour ago”, said Malcolm, “and I can’t stay long – I’ll have to leave around 4.30” (it wasn’t even 8.30 at that point!). Obviously a day of great excitement ahead for them, bless ‘em!

The Virgin train from Peterborough to Leeds was much more comfortable; I had a forward facing table seat, with a plug socket (I’ve learnt never to pass up a free phone charge while travelling) and decent toilets; plus a lovely lady making announcements and a refreshments trolley. The scenery was fairly pleasant in that there were a few more low hills and we passed through some major towns (Grantham, Newark, Doncaster and Wakefield).

 

We arrived in Leeds pretty much on time, and I gave up on the queue for the ladies’ toilets and headed straight to my final train to Skipton. Which (luckily) had a toilet on board!

On this part of the journey I feel very much that I’m ‘Up North’. I’m a Southern gal, growing up on the outskirts of London and Buckinghamshire. The North is a place of mystery to me, a world I’ve only really seen on TV. But the landscape that rolled past was suddenly very much as I expected Yorkshire to look…. Rolling fields and steep hillsides, flocks of sheep nestling under dry stone walls, little towns with rows of terraced houses and converted mills. We passed through Keighley (a very pretty little station with a steam engine puffing away on another platform), Bingley, Saltaire…familiar names, but places from that far-away land of the North, where winters are tough and men are men and (quite possibly) there be dragons. It was – (and I’m ashamed to say, to my surprise) – all very pretty. I was really enjoying the ongoing view from my train window, watching the shadows of clouds sweep across the distant hills and the unfamiliar little clusters of cottages. I was also enjoying the snatches of conversations I could hear from other passengers, in accents that I’m not used to hearing in my day-to-day life; that is, until a couple of irritating twenty-something men sat across from me, loudly name-dropping about how much their band was earning for their latest album and how someone who was married to Richard Branson’s daughter was looking at their screenplay – all said very loudly in what seemed to be a fake, slightly Antipodean drawl.  I put my iPod on, and drowned them out with a bit of soothing Rufus Wainwright as we slowly slid into Skipton station…..