tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54573089120255407072024-02-22T07:29:05.379-08:00The Ancient TravellerDavid Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-17754183338377824112024-02-20T07:20:00.000-08:002024-02-20T07:20:36.795-08:00A Pot Noodle Lunch with Jack Sparrow at the Summit of Jebel Attuf (update)<p> </p><p>I am flattered that the BBC is to broadcast my piece from Petra:</p><p>http://www.theancienttraveller.com/2023/03/a-pot-noodle-lunch-with-jack-sparrow-at.html</p><p>on BBC Radio Solent on Thursday 22 February 2024. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The show is BBC Radio Solent (And you're also across quite a few more counties) - Upload at 7-8pm on 96.1and 103.8FM, on Digital, BBC Sounds and here:</span></p><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0805r6w&source=gmail&ust=1708525529353000&usg=AOvVaw2qTY749QwfEfYiUH5gioWw" href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0805r6w" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" target="_blank">https://www.bbc.co.uk/<wbr></wbr>programmes/p0805r6w</a><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It will also be repeated in a two hour show from 6pm on Saturday.</span><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7H_uGgZ9HjaP1yFIzZlYpYAY_DIp23Z8N8u-9iUlneHSuei5njXgiGGVPwHtmNf4RIVk1TwX6oQYa4UzRq-o3CbRSXKVgdy56zZP39VxZFRdVOh2j1XeJay_mgOpsH-5CGKg8-zgVcfFVgJ2weZ4EqtRqlhlkz-WZVU5IY-DnaOTxa4C87_Vezv3j01_/s1080/BBC%20Upload%20-%20MAIN%20POST%20FRAME%20-%201%20Person%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7H_uGgZ9HjaP1yFIzZlYpYAY_DIp23Z8N8u-9iUlneHSuei5njXgiGGVPwHtmNf4RIVk1TwX6oQYa4UzRq-o3CbRSXKVgdy56zZP39VxZFRdVOh2j1XeJay_mgOpsH-5CGKg8-zgVcfFVgJ2weZ4EqtRqlhlkz-WZVU5IY-DnaOTxa4C87_Vezv3j01_/s320/BBC%20Upload%20-%20MAIN%20POST%20FRAME%20-%201%20Person%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div></div>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-38345643897543986072023-11-02T07:04:00.000-07:002023-11-19T23:44:20.635-08:00Podgorica, Montenegro: The Smell Of Freedom<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0RJODl4QVx0TNW8IhmSNTTSqo897szFwrOQo81k2khqD9TQVW1hwJ0K4IlozSWr3sNMhYTkUFxUVZzw293ukHzG6pooHv6SHkCNSqMr3RuL17uGJeRMKLq7tpksSN9rgjjrfp-zJWLsDFvyKbeo7ppbZyk4sNm3_bO0hcjKxHTxHP0DhDgYhGtqc7WnV/s1001/CUE-Podgorica-1_1_11zon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="1001" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0RJODl4QVx0TNW8IhmSNTTSqo897szFwrOQo81k2khqD9TQVW1hwJ0K4IlozSWr3sNMhYTkUFxUVZzw293ukHzG6pooHv6SHkCNSqMr3RuL17uGJeRMKLq7tpksSN9rgjjrfp-zJWLsDFvyKbeo7ppbZyk4sNm3_bO0hcjKxHTxHP0DhDgYhGtqc7WnV/s320/CUE-Podgorica-1_1_11zon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cue Hotel, Podgorica (from the hotel website)</span></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It was unmistakable. As I stepped into the stylishly modern
lobby of the Cue Hotel in Podgorica, my nose twitched at the sophisticated fragrance
of cigar smoke.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I turned to see a cigar lounge complete with leather <st1:city w:st="on">Chesterfields</st1:city>, ashtrays and a splendid humidor displaying
true <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Havana</st1:place></st1:city>
cigars, some the size of torpedoes, right down to delicate cheroots. It was
right there open to the lobby and evidently well used. The smell was of quiet
enjoyment, hedonism and but more than that, the smell of freedom.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Look, I know, smoking is a filthy malodorous habit. It is
bad for smokers and all those around them. There are a million reasons not just
to ban it but to abolish it altogether. Yet it is another freedom lost — its
odour to be replaced by the sweet, cloying, artificial pong of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vapes</i> – until they ban those to be
superseded by who knows what new horror?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do not know what the laws are in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Montenegro</st1:country-region></st1:place>. People seemed not to
smoke in public indoor spaces except for the Cue Hotel cigar lounge, but they
certainly smoke at outside tables. That evening, I watched four men at an
outside table of the Cue. A bottle of wine rested in an ice bucket. All four
men sat back in the evening light smoking fragrant cigars. I could see that the
conversation was calm and sporadic. Just four men enjoying a proper smoke and
companionship.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Montenegro</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is applying to join the European Union. It will adopt new values that will
extinguish such blatant hedonism. It is their choice and they will have much to
gain but something will be lost.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.ptg.co.uk/" target="_blank">PTG Tours</a></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com2Podgorica, Montenegro42.4304196 19.259364214.120185763821155 -15.8968858 70.740653436178846 54.4156142tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-15715248223583149072023-10-22T11:28:00.000-07:002023-10-22T11:28:13.775-07:00On the Origin of Holy Relics<p> Over the years, I have travelled with Adrienne to many countries in the Levant and the Balkans. I have been struck by the numbers of churches dedicated to St George. Many of them are guardians of bones; precious and plentiful relics of the saint. St. George is the patron saint of England an many other countries and causes. This prompted me to write a piece of short fiction from the point of view of his famous adversary, the dragon. I hope you like it.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4P3RwpWYptEr6an4UdVaOxtR8EuCxvH15XDHwFrO15QT8r0sKJwl8kNPLAB6ZPKRCgdytlJtx2eXiGfw2-qXUYAdpZ-6fCNKUkaCxv6L4zFLRAckI9z8K8W7U9BwqY2Avp0kVapzy2Yv77TFwexqcMHxTxo9xiMXV2DKQBwH64CWBOWu2BFypDvTPO0b/s4624/St%20George%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3176" data-original-width="4624" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4P3RwpWYptEr6an4UdVaOxtR8EuCxvH15XDHwFrO15QT8r0sKJwl8kNPLAB6ZPKRCgdytlJtx2eXiGfw2-qXUYAdpZ-6fCNKUkaCxv6L4zFLRAckI9z8K8W7U9BwqY2Avp0kVapzy2Yv77TFwexqcMHxTxo9xiMXV2DKQBwH64CWBOWu2BFypDvTPO0b/s320/St%20George%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Postcard from St. George's Church, Adaba, Jordan</i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On The Origin Of Holy
Relics<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With just one roar, I made my toast, seared my bacon and heated
my coffee. Life’s good when I can generate that much dragon fuel in a night. Talking
of knights, what is going on? Every day for the last fortnight there’s been another
one of the blighters. They all look the same: horse, lance, chain mail, white
tabard, red cross. Every man jack of them calls himself Saint George.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t remember half of them. There was one, patron saint
of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Portugal</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
I saw him off and when I say I saw him off I mean that, having given him a good
grilling, I sawed off his leg and ate it. I sold the leg bones. I have a trusty
man in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Aleppo</st1:city></st1:place>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can get me a good price for relics of St
George.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On Thursday, it was another George claiming to be the patron
saint of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lithuania</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
He was easy. Sold off a jawbone and an arm.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then there was the one with the fancy saddle. Said he was
patron saint of saddle makers. Sold off his Ischial Tuberosity — that’s bum
bones for the uneducated — talk about saddle sore. Mind you, I didn’t get much
of a price for them. They don’t make for a dignified relic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And the George who said he was the patron saint of syphilis?
I just incinerated him. Best to be on the safe side.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My man in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Aleppo</st1:city></st1:place>
passed me a special order today. Some geezer called Robert of Jerusalem wants a
whole arm, shoulder and ribcage of St. George. He will pay a tidy price. I
don’t need a fight. I can find that lot in the spare bones at the back of my
cave. Some of them may even be human.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
won’t know the difference.</p><p class="MsoNormal">~~~</p><p></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Jordan30.585164 36.2384142.2749301638211534 1.0821639999999988 58.895397836178844 71.394664tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-77932740572233279082023-08-31T08:40:00.001-07:002024-02-07T01:38:56.653-08:00Seeing the World for the First Time<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgBk87v8pTb5DEM8IgMgKVNNw7dlS3AR_vuU9uZC8kcQalxksY1oujFa3XAvcEXZEQKv5Z75ExTCcG-1-DGfIuJNjSF8Ix2Qty8xXwWj853scfqeYxerQJclvHgZBuZ5e_GzjyWJBIo46Et05oogZxGxhlBiQayPyhmnhhsJj6G-BiRh7HDplNb7nUQxD/s800/Geocarta_Nautica_Universale_(color).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="800" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgBk87v8pTb5DEM8IgMgKVNNw7dlS3AR_vuU9uZC8kcQalxksY1oujFa3XAvcEXZEQKv5Z75ExTCcG-1-DGfIuJNjSF8Ix2Qty8xXwWj853scfqeYxerQJclvHgZBuZ5e_GzjyWJBIo46Et05oogZxGxhlBiQayPyhmnhhsJj6G-BiRh7HDplNb7nUQxD/w494-h210/Geocarta_Nautica_Universale_(color).png" width="494" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Geocarta Nautica Universale (Color) Public Domain</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">In 1523, in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region></st1:place>, two men set about making a
map of the world. They were well equipped for the task. One was Giovanni
Vespucci, cartographer to the King of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region></st1:place> and nephew of the great
Amerigo. The other, Captain Juan Elcano, had returned the previous year after
completing the first ever circumnavigation of the world. He had been
second-in-command of Ferdinand Magellan’s expedition. Magellan himself lost his
life in the <st1:place w:st="on">Spice Islands</st1:place>. The expedition had
taken nearly three years and was a feat of navigation no less intrepid than the
Apollo 8 mission that first rounded the far side of the moon.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I am in the dimly lit basement of
the Royal Library at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Turin</st1:city></st1:place>,
looking at the very map. It is exquisitely drawn and coloured on 12 sheets of cotton
canvas. It is nearly twice as wide as my arm span. It looks a bit like a modern
Mercator projection, but it is not. Mercator was only eleven years old. Navigators
in the 16<sup>th</sup> century knew that the Earth was round and had a fair
idea of its circumference. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They knew of the <st1:country-region w:st="on">Americas</st1:country-region>
but not what lay beyond or whether they could get through or round them to <st1:place w:st="on">Asia</st1:place>. They found the way and what did lie beyond was the <st1:place w:st="on">Pacific Ocean</st1:place> taking
up a third of the map, and demonstrated for the first time in history. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">But what of the world that the map
reveals? Europe, the <st1:place w:st="on">Mediterranean</st1:place> and Black
seas were well known and accurately drawn. North Cape and the <st1:place w:st="on">Arctic
Ocean</st1:place> had yet to be properly explored. The Caribbean and Central
America, already discovered by <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Columbus</st1:city></st1:place>,
appear in detail. The rest of the eastern seaboard of North America is still
unknown, except for a ghostly, detached sketch of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Florida</st1:state></st1:place>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The east coast of South America for
is shown in detail, right down to the first ever representation of <st1:place w:st="on">Cape Horn</st1:place>. Magellan rounded the Horn, through what we now
call the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Magellan</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Strait</st1:placetype></st1:place>. He did not know
how close he had passed to the northern tip of the <st1:place w:st="on">Antarctic
Peninsula</st1:place>. The great continent of <st1:place w:st="on">Antarctica</st1:place>
does not feature on the map. It was not the only continent that he would miss.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">From Cape Horn, Magellan set off west
to find <st1:place w:st="on">Asia</st1:place>. The west coast of South America
and almost the whole of <st1:place w:st="on">North America</st1:place> are
missing. But then, the map shows the great expanse of the <st1:place w:st="on">Pacific
Ocean</st1:place> stretching to the West. The idea of longitude had yet to be
conceived. It was easy enough in those days to know how far north or south a
ship was but east and west could not be accurately measured. Day after day,
they had travelled westwards hoping they were on the right latitude to make
landfall on the Spice Islands (the <st1:place w:st="on">Moluccas</st1:place>).
They were. The Moluccas are shown, as are the great islands of Java and <st1:place w:st="on">Sumatra</st1:place>. <st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region>
and eastern <st1:place w:st="on">Asia</st1:place> are only roughly sketched in.
<st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> is shown in detail as
is the Arabian Peninsula and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Madagascar</st1:country-region></st1:place>.
They missed the continent of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Australia</st1:country-region></st1:place>.
<st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place> is about right as the expedition, now
under the command of Elcano rounded the continent. The mountains of the moon,
legendary source of the Nile, and the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlas Mountains</st1:place>
appear as coloured sketches.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">500 years on, this map is a gorgeous
and spellbinding work of art. There is much missing but our minds fill in the
gaps. I am looking at the world we know drawn for the first time.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I travelled with the excellent <a href="https://www.ptg.co.uk/" target="_blank">PTG Tours</a></p><br /><p></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Turin, Metropolitan City of Turin, Italy45.0703393 7.68686416.760105463821155 -27.469386 73.380573136178839 42.843114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-61976212845132490562023-08-29T01:02:00.001-07:002023-08-29T01:02:30.707-07:00Travelling with Ibn Battutah<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwamIoHGB8c0KLGiZeKza3pVXJWbm9e09E1MXPUkXLQwxFpTlY5j0or-jI0eX0B4t7B1KVciYORLYl-CJ_WCeyrlegF0WDT_QntqpNMkFs7QvyMwRGbX07AkjLkcrtLTK86_ILG7O3JXQsDq8ZHh0Ks7Umme7X2kKIUZyfKNbe6MIPxPohtyIZbyzc-4au/s3632/Ibn%20Battutah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3632" data-original-width="2724" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwamIoHGB8c0KLGiZeKza3pVXJWbm9e09E1MXPUkXLQwxFpTlY5j0or-jI0eX0B4t7B1KVciYORLYl-CJ_WCeyrlegF0WDT_QntqpNMkFs7QvyMwRGbX07AkjLkcrtLTK86_ILG7O3JXQsDq8ZHh0Ks7Umme7X2kKIUZyfKNbe6MIPxPohtyIZbyzc-4au/s320/Ibn%20Battutah.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Recently, my travelling companion has
been the great Arab traveller and anecdotal historian, Ibn Battutah (IB). Not
literally, he travelled in the 14<sup>th</sup> century (1325 to 1354). <i>The Travels of Ibn Battutah</i> edited by
Tim McIntosh-Smith in the beautiful Macmillan Collector’s Library edition fitted
into my pocket and its silk ribbon marked my progress through its gilt-edged
pages and IB’s 29-year journey</p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">IB was a Qadi, a judge and expert
in Islamic jurisprudence. He was a contemporary of Geoffrey Chaucer. IB set out
from his home in Tangier towards <st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city> but travelled
north to the Volga, east to <st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region>
and south as far as modern <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Tanzania</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
or so he says. IB is an unreliable narrator. He is known to exaggerate and he
probably presented other travellers’ tales as his own.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">IB was a learned and devout Muslim.
He takes a puritanical view of licentiousness in others, though he expects it
of infidels. Wherever he goes, he seeks out fellow Muslim scholars. He also
seeks out wealthy rulers. For them he is not just a scholar and Qadi but a man
with interesting tales to tell.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Given that we cannot necessarily
rely on his stories, I grew interested in the logistics of his travels and what
little he tells us about his personal relationships. At times, IB appears to travel
alone and at others, he had a large retinue. He speaks occasionally of
companions but never names them. Late in his travels, he does mention that one
of his companions dies, which causes him some inconvenience.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I do not think he ever travelled
light, which brings me to the question of how he financed his travels. He sets
out with a supply of silver dirhams that would have been good tender throughout
the Islamic world. On arrival in a <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">new
city</st1:city></st1:place>, IB would seek out the Sultan. Sultans usually
lavished gifts upon him. Sometimes it was coin but often less convertible items
such as grain, live animals and fabrics. On occasions, he had to hire camels to
transport his goods. I imagine he sold some gifts to raise cash.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">IB’s attitude to slavery slowly
shows itself. He never agonises over it. It is part of the way of his world. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">IB travels through <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Turkey</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
a journey of some weeks. He says matter-of-factly that he travelled in an
oxcart accompanied only by three slave girls. In a later episode, he is caused
some inconvenience when a slave girl gets pregnant and gives birth. IB does not
reveal who the father is.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">At one point, he arranges a voyage
to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region></st1:place>
in a junk. He insists that he must hire one of the merchants’ suites, a series
of private rooms. He needs them so he can take with him his slave girls and
wives (in that order). It is his habit never to travel without slave girls. The
arrangements are made but, while IB is ashore making his final preparations, a
storm blows up and the junk with all his possessions including slave girls and
wives sails away, leaving him behind. He never sees them again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">IB finds himself in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Maldives</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
his fortunes restored. Here, we get the only insight into IB’s sex life. He
writes that the inhabitants live on fish and the fruit of the coco palm which
has ‘an amazing and unparalleled effect in sexual intercourse. I had myself
there four wives and concubines as well. I used to visit them all every day and
pass the night with the wife whose turn it was.’ He left after a year and a
half, leaving the wives and concubines behind. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There is little mention of slaves
as labourers; rather, they appear to be owned by sultans as status symbols. On
several occasions, IB writes that he has given or been given a white slave girl
as a gift.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I enjoyed having Ibn Battutah as
the travelling companion in my pocket but I would not have wanted to travel
with him.</p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-84037409841348970852023-05-16T02:31:00.004-07:002023-05-18T08:46:10.421-07:00The Armoury at the Musei Reali Torino<p> <a href="https://museireali.beniculturali.it/armeria/" target="_blank">Armoury Picture</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">A visit to the Royal Palace Museum in Turin. I am unmoved by Baroque palaces. Every grand room leads into another. The rooms are over-decorated stage sets of rooms. We pass through quickly. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But oh, the Armoury. We step over a
threshold from the magnificent but dull on to a chequered floor. We are pawns
in a giant fantasy chessboard. This is not a functioning armoury but the best
display of armour I have seen anywhere. A great Baroque painted ceiling flies
over a long, broad gallery lit by tall windows. The eyes are taken down between
lines of armoured and caparisoned, fully spurred and armoured knights on
realistic-looking and armoured horses. Between the mounted knights are displays
of more weapons and armour. Many are marvellously engraved, carved or covered
with intricate marquetry. Never mind the history, spectacle itself is thing.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.ptg.co.uk/" target="_blank">PTG Tours</a></p><p></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Turin, Metropolitan City of Turin, Italy45.0703393 7.68686416.760105463821155 -27.469386 73.380573136178839 42.843114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-28156919783244760872023-03-23T10:50:00.001-07:002023-05-18T08:49:15.684-07:00Sandcastles and Stories<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpJfaCMJx3XBqXiK95GeGYCRobn6tzKidGRn8TKufkUD2or1_9dpVuhDMyA40w9i8tiz54iwiBCs_exK1AXYXmNgx94FL8WANbgShP45WmUx66_BgKgWExrFos272ROhS2P1_nYMmmE_Ha3bd9OMHriUHJrFXEh28x4dZCvgQ154t2sRQtOo_cOhc_g/s5184/DSC08309.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpJfaCMJx3XBqXiK95GeGYCRobn6tzKidGRn8TKufkUD2or1_9dpVuhDMyA40w9i8tiz54iwiBCs_exK1AXYXmNgx94FL8WANbgShP45WmUx66_BgKgWExrFos272ROhS2P1_nYMmmE_Ha3bd9OMHriUHJrFXEh28x4dZCvgQ154t2sRQtOo_cOhc_g/s320/DSC08309.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i>Eight strangers were
clustered around the campfire of the distant caravanserai —silhouetted, ragged,
and ripened by adventure. As the flames licked the darkness, sparks spitting up
into the desert's nocturnal firmament, the traveller dressed in indigo cleared
his throat and told his tale.</i><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Opening lines from The
Caravanserai Stories by Tahir Shah (Secretum Mundi Publishing Ltd)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Leaving <st1:city w:st="on">Amman</st1:city>, we join the
old Hajj road that leads from <st1:city w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:city> to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city></st1:place>. It is now a tarmac road, smooth in
places. In the glory days of camel
caravans travelling the Silk Roads, it would have been a foot-beaten path of
sand cutting through the stony black and ochre surface of the Jordanian desert.
Standing solidly in the desert, visible by its stark square shape rather than
its colour is the Qasr al Kharaneh. Its
tall square walls with what seem to be arrow slits and its turrets make it look
like a fort or castle (Arabic: Qasr). Al Kharaneh is not a fort designed to
control an area; rather it is a place of safety and hospitality for pilgrims
and travellers following the old silk roads and pilgrimage routes. It is a caravanserai.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMq-a7LJTdBIr2QtUmB4-qbcUx6KWwO-dEI2My081tPg3Jhr5Cmb_pXhvDx7XMEYsX7_chlJF_DoxgMpUBLfLC7XAv8eLoU_eUPk36F_EY25uhwP2U8CktMjClgxCitUBdotbRkPV-dNyNRfJF4SHZS0GZn9vA_TqnN12BBmikMyiOLiJB9YZV5YmOdQ/s4963/DSC08313.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3723" data-original-width="4963" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMq-a7LJTdBIr2QtUmB4-qbcUx6KWwO-dEI2My081tPg3Jhr5Cmb_pXhvDx7XMEYsX7_chlJF_DoxgMpUBLfLC7XAv8eLoU_eUPk36F_EY25uhwP2U8CktMjClgxCitUBdotbRkPV-dNyNRfJF4SHZS0GZn9vA_TqnN12BBmikMyiOLiJB9YZV5YmOdQ/s320/DSC08313.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Qasr’s only door is huge to allow horses and loaded
camels into the open courtyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around
the courtyard, there are 61 rooms for weary travellers. There is little light from
outside, only the narrow, arrow-slit windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once in here, the traveller is safe from the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The courtyard is open to the stars. Water is given,
food and fodder provided and fires are lit. Travellers from all directions exchange
goods, ideas and, above all, stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The great Berber traveller, Ibn Battuta would have stayed in
caravanserais such as this one and his tales still survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few decades later, Geoffrey Chaucer
recorded the tales of pilgrims going to <st1:city w:st="on">Canterbury</st1:city>
told in the roadside inns of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The English and Arab travellers, had they
ever met, would have recognised each other’s experiences.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, the Qasr al Kharaneh sits in empty desert. In its
glory days, the climate was softer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well-irrigated
fields and date palms would have surrounded it. Al Kharaneh would have been
sociable and lively but the accommodation would have been simple to the point
of stark. The next Qasr could not be more different.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GJF0ToiI3l6N26S3orxStTGQ4jNgmDnrh2FifhEmid4YloC-QUroj6S0pvG0x5QBz44USalbHEXFkPBdEr2Sk49jFkm60dPV3CdWBB7f7y0SJFSFYTz9FFbLBfd4TGGa4CKvdeo5fKLFjp9AbxMN2rcWAkzwc4eMS3dNxn2Ju_9eje5En55xuZzBtA/s5184/DSC08322.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GJF0ToiI3l6N26S3orxStTGQ4jNgmDnrh2FifhEmid4YloC-QUroj6S0pvG0x5QBz44USalbHEXFkPBdEr2Sk49jFkm60dPV3CdWBB7f7y0SJFSFYTz9FFbLBfd4TGGa4CKvdeo5fKLFjp9AbxMN2rcWAkzwc4eMS3dNxn2Ju_9eje5En55xuZzBtA/s320/DSC08322.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Qasr al Amra also sits isolated in the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is on a smaller scale, more intimate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is less harshly square and even has a
couple of domes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have seen domes like
this before in Turkish baths (hammams).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely
not here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that is exactly what it
is. If you had been a merchant trekking for a couple of weeks across the desert
with only a camel for a friend, you might have liked the idea of a good wash
and a massage with scented oils in a hammam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You would have been out of luck. Caravanserais were also places for
Sultans to rest as they travelled their lands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This one was probably built for the Umayyad caliph al-Walid I (705-715).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could still see some of the frescoes of
hunting and bathing scenes that border on the lascivious.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJh9M9Az_9cFu6XumgxiXF5y_GAAVoy0pvV4ET2fm1Z4pdT3LkBP8GOh4IptYAGEjlnfP9WqlrFvGkmw5CrgsqQ111zxuelcgoehAlU94HloltRzsDctfkZ6cFVF22QBphMMtZx6ZWcPV_woR8JNhg2TsMABzWuGSTaeCIBZBI_2Q67jL3Kc7_jj_x0Q/s5184/DSC08328.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJh9M9Az_9cFu6XumgxiXF5y_GAAVoy0pvV4ET2fm1Z4pdT3LkBP8GOh4IptYAGEjlnfP9WqlrFvGkmw5CrgsqQ111zxuelcgoehAlU94HloltRzsDctfkZ6cFVF22QBphMMtZx6ZWcPV_woR8JNhg2TsMABzWuGSTaeCIBZBI_2Q67jL3Kc7_jj_x0Q/w249-h187/DSC08328.JPG" width="249" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYR6BEqPECnrX2i-tHKEO9ekoTeuxNIUaeZzlRhXFB6NJTvf67Zti047lSM8hN2MsBwg7euqGTwkIsdOJjki40t_BYJADJf2sXmP835BRVYbH0F1Mmt_3L5YpC-zGQSKxduXOjAlK6C1zTHhnOrvbPx12_itnYNuL2ys5QrdVGK5UgYLrlYsJwSrHP6g/s5184/DSC08325.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYR6BEqPECnrX2i-tHKEO9ekoTeuxNIUaeZzlRhXFB6NJTvf67Zti047lSM8hN2MsBwg7euqGTwkIsdOJjki40t_BYJADJf2sXmP835BRVYbH0F1Mmt_3L5YpC-zGQSKxduXOjAlK6C1zTHhnOrvbPx12_itnYNuL2ys5QrdVGK5UgYLrlYsJwSrHP6g/w240-h180/DSC08325.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are Qasrs like al Kharaneh scattered all over the
Jordanian desert marking out old trade and pilgrimage routes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On one night among many over the centuries, the Sun has set
and fires and braziers light the central courtyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strangers sit round these fires with coffee
and dates and water pipes. People start to tell stories of their recent
travels, their experience of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city></st1:place>,
and their trading successes. They share stories of merchants and places to
avoid.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They tell new stories of Richard Coeur de Lion and Salah ad-Din.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They tell older, well-loved stories of
Scheherazade garnered into Arab literature from ancient Sanskrit and Persian
tales.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They tell Bronze Age stories from
The Book; stories of Ibrahim and Ishmael and of Moses.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A traveller from the very furthest North of the known world
tells a story of Lief Eriksson. The story is too outlandish to be
believed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A traveller from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Egypt</st1:country-region></st1:place> relates the tale of
Rhodopis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a beautiful slave
girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While washing her feet in the <st1:place w:st="on">Nile</st1:place>, an eagle swoops and takes one of her shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eagle drops it into the lap of the King
of Egypt, who is so entranced by the delicate shape of the shoe that he sends
out his servants to find the woman whose foot fits it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They find Rhodopis and she marries the King.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The stories drift up into the desert sky and join the literary
heritage of the World.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.vjv.com/" target="_blank">Jules Verne Tours</a> </p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Jordan30.585164 36.238414-25.728039474881129 -34.074086 86.898367474881127 106.550914tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-7403707778468650232023-03-22T04:15:00.005-07:002023-05-18T08:51:05.744-07:00Photographing People in Vietnam<p><i> Here is a piece I found in my journal from a trip to Halong Bay and the Red River in Vietnam in 2018. It gives me a good excuse for publishing some lovely photographs. I hope you enjoy the post and the pictures. Please let me know.</i></p><p><i>David</i></p><p><br /></p><p>There is an etiquette to taking photographs of people in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Vietnam</st1:place></st1:country-region> —
always ask, always show the result.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">People turned me down about half the time. Children,
surprisingly, were not the most willing subjects. The boys were keen enough;
the girls were shy. But how hard it was to get natural shots. They have somehow
learned always to pose with their fingers making a V in the way that every
selfie-taker uses nowadays.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The best and keenest subjects were old women. They hunt in
packs and descend on tourists. They are keen to talk and do not mind a bit that
we do not understand Vietnamese. It is a tonal language and hard to pick up.
Nor do they mind that they do understand a word of English.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With help from our guide, I learnt that after saying “Hello”,
the very first question is always,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How
old are you?” I learnt to recognise the sound pattern of this question. In <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Vietnam</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
it is an important and polite question. The second person pronoun varies in
Vietnamese depending on whether you are speaking to someone older, much older
or younger than yourself. The follow-up comments to my answer caused our guide
to laugh with embarrassment when translating.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I am 74.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No wonder your hair is so grey.” or,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You look it.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Occasionally the answer was flattering, “You look much
younger.” Those conical straw hats cover lively and inquisitive minds.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A visit to a Roman Catholic Cathedral on a Sunday morning
was fun. On partition, nearly 1 million people, mostly Roman Catholics, fled
south away from the Communist regime. Religion was not encouraged. There are
still huge cathedrals and the one we saw had a big congregation. Religion seems
to be thriving. This cathedral had many children in it all wearing Boy Scout
style uniforms. The cathedral had open arches at the side. During the service,
children kept leaking out to seek adventures such as being photographed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two elderly men with whom I shared a cigar volunteered to be
photographed and stood stiffly and proudly for their portraits</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The best of the laughing faces was the girl in the
ceramic-making village, who accidentally spilled water over our feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her fit of giggles that went on for a good
five minutes provided me with some wonderful photographs.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The children were fun, the workers serious and the old women
full of character. The young women were just enjoying being young and
beautiful.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.vjv.com/" target="_blank">Jules Verne Tours</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIcamM5gIUfgKL_WmmJDKfgIQUixpQw-z4BKr34HVMNblAPHFGQ8Zi6JR0-voCsyjJqXvwwcIlTOX8XdRHflTsnLVTN_n2vgCQsa6WcDormdoeyB3BuCr0lqp-eddVrBLrqzprTVnS8HlA9Fdrfu2JcqohePATwBgiyqAFDbYQS4bhrS59SR6nCAK-Q/s5184/DSC07756.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIcamM5gIUfgKL_WmmJDKfgIQUixpQw-z4BKr34HVMNblAPHFGQ8Zi6JR0-voCsyjJqXvwwcIlTOX8XdRHflTsnLVTN_n2vgCQsa6WcDormdoeyB3BuCr0lqp-eddVrBLrqzprTVnS8HlA9Fdrfu2JcqohePATwBgiyqAFDbYQS4bhrS59SR6nCAK-Q/s320/DSC07756.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2688" data-original-width="4116" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKC2fgAOUokf6-QEUPtgXoaf7YK5g_nKqJdr0PIqRgpMvDtefc22gLVJBM3L3NG7TESffOUmQFCUIqFKNIhsOXDKrHZ6JZGUjN1Y5KGivFK90CJeWxoALDrW_k_amyeH7JS1Pxu8lGGY7N6BrvpJEFSf_OM7kD6gUc0j_ukmg8ZuNWfkZmBKUV3O9NVw/s320/DSC07527.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Red River, Vietnam22.436341556188651 103.8718572874598-5.8738922799901943 68.7156072874598 50.7465753923675 139.02810728745982tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-15114371619599836992023-03-13T04:35:00.002-07:002023-10-21T02:59:26.166-07:00A Pot Noodle Lunch with Jack Sparrow at the Summit of Jebel Attuf<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbMehx9pbsrzKYEq_n7aXEpNXBJWljQtClIFPIyUpcaDok58RP0XhLqI29dPvbwfZq2RnyLxVYGOR2SLIKPKRTGsUPD8BvRt2XbeLc33emI_XxXRlNfmR27Do-iNoeEB2JrCcWc2rxZ3tl9n9sDo2iuLCzwldo1tL52UNbPp8z9v5gvxS9IGXm4XKuA/s5184/DSC08480.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbMehx9pbsrzKYEq_n7aXEpNXBJWljQtClIFPIyUpcaDok58RP0XhLqI29dPvbwfZq2RnyLxVYGOR2SLIKPKRTGsUPD8BvRt2XbeLc33emI_XxXRlNfmR27Do-iNoeEB2JrCcWc2rxZ3tl9n9sDo2iuLCzwldo1tL52UNbPp8z9v5gvxS9IGXm4XKuA/s320/DSC08480.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jebel Attuf with Petra below</span></div><br /> The Naboteans, on
whose city I am trampling called it Raqmu. We call it <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Petra</st1:city></st1:place>. I am to climb 900 steps up to “The
Place of High Sacrifice”. The name is a modern fancy. I prefer the Arab name
for the bluff of red sandstone towering above me: Jebel Attuf.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">In truth, what I
can see above me is the original ground level of a sandstone plateau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The City of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Petra</st1:city></st1:place> is at the bottom of a deep wadi (gorge)
cut out of the rock by water and air over aeons.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">At the stall at
the foot of the first steps, I sit and drink a Turkish coffee (2 Dinars) to
fortify myself for the climb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTpkc4Qpz41zdg9p7XZLO68yatcgi-HKPpdNWxSZFIy28LrSpNmC4exqTgu13rfxYcl9JxKacagAU-sQPxiSeBe76PgbiBEexQRHKsmsW6ylxA7I78COvONW32OVQEAzcBTwtndgMYnopfEjWbjqabK8HcwKwmNI-k0CUmKUar1OUH1Ool0fErTUpmQ/s4624/High%20Sacrifice%20Map.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTpkc4Qpz41zdg9p7XZLO68yatcgi-HKPpdNWxSZFIy28LrSpNmC4exqTgu13rfxYcl9JxKacagAU-sQPxiSeBe76PgbiBEexQRHKsmsW6ylxA7I78COvONW32OVQEAzcBTwtndgMYnopfEjWbjqabK8HcwKwmNI-k0CUmKUar1OUH1Ool0fErTUpmQ/s320/High%20Sacrifice%20Map.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">The trail I am
following is an invention for tourists. Some of the 900 steps are old, some are
modern. I start on worn, shallow sandstone steps. They are extraordinary. Many
feet have worn the stone into shallow depressions that feather the millimetre
thick geological layers into rings of red, ochre, brown, yellow and black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am walking on a petrified Arabian carpet.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">At the first turn,
an elderly Bedouin woman plays a few notes on a tin whistle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stops, “I walk here every day. My husband
died.” I part with a Dinar; it is expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of my companions is having trouble with the steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old woman takes my companion’s arm and
uses her hidden strength to help her up the next flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is an Arab saying, “Give without
remembering, take without forgetting.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">I am halfway up. I
take it steadily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start to think about
the 900 steps down on the other side. I feel a bit daunted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just at that moment, I have to move aside to
let a man past who is sprinting up the steps. He has plenty of breath to say,
“Merci”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Frenchman. Of course he’s a
Frenchman. I plod on.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">The steps vary in
height and depth; it is hard going. Slowly I rise from the valley floor towards
the sky and the top level of the plateau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Near the top is a small Crusader lookout post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is built with solid, square cut blocks of
sandstone that do not match the surrounding rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did they carry the castle up here block by
block?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">Finally, I reach
the summit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A young Bedouin man is
selling souvenirs and coffee in a black and red tent made of camelhair rugs. The
souvenirs are the same as they are in almost every stall in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Petra</st1:city></st1:place>. The Bedouin inhabitants were persuaded
to move out of their cave dwellings into a village built for them outside the
site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In return, they have a monopoly on
selling and working in what is now a UNESCO protected site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I order a Turkish coffee. It is only one and
a half Dinars despite the fact that everything including the water has to be
lugged up to the top.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">I ask if I can
join him as he sits under the sky on top of a red and ochre plateau of rock
that might be on Mars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He motions me to
sit so I sip my coffee as he enjoys his lunch of pot noodles.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLsMp6ajurL3Bjjr4IBTqWNDZrK48h-4j2dbgCvMjKfPT9l8MaGLKwptDiFWoTtN20zoZb44y48K4x9kNx8jIGBC-HT-VHhTuEuv3jDDhUtwGthvu6PRhUt1TH9bhVQCFK_42gCyFMIySxCWOnXRxXnwx1IfpjuAv8jZljFusndRorNrMl-Z5Pprf4g/s640/IMG_5451.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLsMp6ajurL3Bjjr4IBTqWNDZrK48h-4j2dbgCvMjKfPT9l8MaGLKwptDiFWoTtN20zoZb44y48K4x9kNx8jIGBC-HT-VHhTuEuv3jDDhUtwGthvu6PRhUt1TH9bhVQCFK_42gCyFMIySxCWOnXRxXnwx1IfpjuAv8jZljFusndRorNrMl-Z5Pprf4g/s320/IMG_5451.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">Photo credit Jonathan Baltesz, thank you.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">Since time
immemorial, Bedouin men have applied deep black kohl round their eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a protection against the desert sun but
they are not unaware that it gives them a dashing and exotic air. They also
enjoy thick, lustrous jet-black hair that is naturally wavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a sort of competitive evolution, many of
the younger Bedouin now dress to look like Jack Sparrow, Johnny Depp’s
character in the Pirates of the <st1:place w:st="on">Caribbean</st1:place>
movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kohl is now drawn into
fantastic shapes. Whether the look works some magic on susceptible backpackers
from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Akron</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Ohio</st1:state></st1:place>, I did not dare ask.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">We have a go at
conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have only a few words of
Arabic and my accent is so bad that he does not recognise that I am speaking
his language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells me he sleeps up
here at the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has seven brothers
and sisters and that he has a girlfriend in the village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realise that these are a few stock phrases of
English that he has learnt. We have a companionable ten minutes but no real conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish him “Marsalamah” (this he recognises)
and I set off down the other side of the bluff.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">There are more of
the modern steps on the way down. Some are cut into the side of the cliff and
turn corners with no railings inside or on the outside of the turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am nervous of heights. Older steps have
been worn by water and feet into a sort of slippery cascade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walk down is more exciting than the climb
up.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">The geological layers
are now beyond my understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
possible geological process has laid down an inches thick layer of bright
yellow stone with a black layer and then another yellow layer above it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looks like a Liquorice Allsort, inserted
into the prevailing ochre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nabotean
caves reveal more layers like tapestries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are horizontal and vertical layers within feet of each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to go home, take a degree in Geology
and return. I reach the lowest
level and find a cool, dark man-made cave.
Inside, two-Dinar coffee is on offer.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.vjv.com/" target="_blank">Jules Verne Tours</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB59d2FEAZU8LAQbRusI4mPwduHk9YVogtId9e0CtPXVbo9BhHjJezLt5VXQ0j1T_mNkknKx_golE0LHOSYDPMsrZKH55ogG62IF8KkR5aqk77jcA97npiGUg_2Dg9ohMxSa84r6TJqCdWpdRS_SfozrbGIqDjuafxyRpumJyLf3PkgwYYUihpHWUwvw/s5184/DSC08460.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB59d2FEAZU8LAQbRusI4mPwduHk9YVogtId9e0CtPXVbo9BhHjJezLt5VXQ0j1T_mNkknKx_golE0LHOSYDPMsrZKH55ogG62IF8KkR5aqk77jcA97npiGUg_2Dg9ohMxSa84r6TJqCdWpdRS_SfozrbGIqDjuafxyRpumJyLf3PkgwYYUihpHWUwvw/s320/DSC08460.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9RhPNHduolYFA6zjQ6m3C7iwG3GRfi8L6QV_16fIbEinS_l8-IcVPUIswq6sItY08jqOzqFB0EUOdd5-a2SGeB9dJwUnk-280Do39YgYPfErcB_BVt7CuxEnYEDnNhMROmK-0BRMK70yiQMvSg2VNGB7q_Y55Tmc8yYLunK1lo75ChEcW7HsVItqQA/s2816/IMG_2714.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2816" data-original-width="1880" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9RhPNHduolYFA6zjQ6m3C7iwG3GRfi8L6QV_16fIbEinS_l8-IcVPUIswq6sItY08jqOzqFB0EUOdd5-a2SGeB9dJwUnk-280Do39YgYPfErcB_BVt7CuxEnYEDnNhMROmK-0BRMK70yiQMvSg2VNGB7q_Y55Tmc8yYLunK1lo75ChEcW7HsVItqQA/s320/IMG_2714.JPG" width="214" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo Adrienne Higham</span></div></div><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 69.0pt;"><br /></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Wadi Musa, Jordan30.3216354 35.48012512.0114015638211562 0.32387510000000219 58.631869236178844 70.636375100000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-56650472766147563222023-03-06T08:10:00.003-08:002023-05-18T08:54:19.907-07:00Three Tales from the Book<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Three Tales from the Book<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></b><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><b>Jordan</b></st1:country-region></st1:place><b> — Mount Nebo</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPB3y9sf0xfhatlsOhCBTxlu0NWAT3opWxvUvyI3Bw-4w-kIKItwHIpZNe1vfGcIZi_-EVB2eB29Junvdv9Da5TAq3SVgEm219HcDXaE4lT7rUX69pE1CgNxPhtjOVZMUC2pQslN3GMhpKHtWFO_brSDDHkrYBj4TEWB2LZAt3vdYGwQdX4qObVlI-Nw/s5184/DSC08272.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPB3y9sf0xfhatlsOhCBTxlu0NWAT3opWxvUvyI3Bw-4w-kIKItwHIpZNe1vfGcIZi_-EVB2eB29Junvdv9Da5TAq3SVgEm219HcDXaE4lT7rUX69pE1CgNxPhtjOVZMUC2pQslN3GMhpKHtWFO_brSDDHkrYBj4TEWB2LZAt3vdYGwQdX4qObVlI-Nw/s320/DSC08272.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Standing on top of <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Nebo</st1:placename> in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Jordan</st1:country-region>
I can see over the plain of the <st1:placetype w:st="on">valley</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Jericho</st1:placename>, over the <st1:placename w:st="on">Jordan</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Valley</st1:placename>
to <st1:city w:st="on">Palestine</st1:city> <i>and
the lands of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Judah</st1:country-region></st1:place>
unto the uttermost sea</i>. If God did
show Moses the promised land (Deuteronomy Chapter 34 verses 1 and 2), this is
the spot where he would have got the best view. I could well be standing where
Moses stood 34 centuries ago. There is a modern monument here dedicated to
Moses and the ideas that unite the three great Abrahamic religions: the People
of the Book.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While there is no archaeological evidence to show that Moses
existed, the story is an ancient one and these stories do not appear from
nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be an origin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now, it is enough that the story is
sanctified by centuries of belief.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQtbCzPNLQ8AZ7WOxgaGR_fpL7cH2wnsq5V9R0RmjOWYp2Owt3CTya8soaqsCFEQTFIosPcA6NxaQM9wteJQuuf_TpTwTNSVo8rNT4EfuWYFn6tUlFL7QRNs40uBVSZ7_blE5aa2ehLadGCS6iM6vU_ce-eQ3Jkd-_QMktGl92ruIBZRhuwYsryk_gQ/s2449/IMG_2339.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2449" data-original-width="1489" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQtbCzPNLQ8AZ7WOxgaGR_fpL7cH2wnsq5V9R0RmjOWYp2Owt3CTya8soaqsCFEQTFIosPcA6NxaQM9wteJQuuf_TpTwTNSVo8rNT4EfuWYFn6tUlFL7QRNs40uBVSZ7_blE5aa2ehLadGCS6iM6vU_ce-eQ3Jkd-_QMktGl92ruIBZRhuwYsryk_gQ/s320/IMG_2339.JPG" width="195" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo Adrienne Higham</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><b>River <st1:country-region w:st="on">Jordan</st1:country-region> — <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Bethany</st1:city></st1:place></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The River Jordan here is a green stream about 20 feet wide
flowing slowly south towards the <st1:place w:st="on">Dead Sea</st1:place>. On
each side of the river, wooden platforms are set into the reeds. The river and
desert are silent but there is a low hum of voices from the opposite bank. A man and a woman in white cotton robes
immerse themselves completely in the holy water of the River Jordan. They emerge, holding hands and looking into
each other’s eyes. They have undergone a profound and joyful experience. They believe they have been baptised in the
very place that John the Baptist baptised Jesus of Nazareth (Luke 3 vv 21-23).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnr3VI9uTQQJqXhngxZmR_-ylQA03woMtTGRLiQhMAUbr3qT31-60haBI9OF__AbJ18FTUQ57Ju22llmaztuIZtFVil9282qoMPNoo8bFdQU-B6u49W_-_luI3mpGF6Bmz8BZauyJi-9FNHjpr4ueQ8Cq3YpiYuO3nEnPccSgc-UHY9hgvcfhVhE-g0w/s2433/IMG_2401.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1466" data-original-width="2433" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnr3VI9uTQQJqXhngxZmR_-ylQA03woMtTGRLiQhMAUbr3qT31-60haBI9OF__AbJ18FTUQ57Ju22llmaztuIZtFVil9282qoMPNoo8bFdQU-B6u49W_-_luI3mpGF6Bmz8BZauyJi-9FNHjpr4ueQ8Cq3YpiYuO3nEnPccSgc-UHY9hgvcfhVhE-g0w/s320/IMG_2401.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo Adrienne Higham</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">The remains of a first century Christian church have been
found here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus was thirty when John baptised
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An early Christian seeking the site
in the first century could have visited this place within living memory of John
the Baptist’s mission as described in Luke’s Gospel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is plausible that this is the right spot.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><b>Baggage Carousel 2 — <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">London</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Heathrow</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place>, Terminal 3</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>We have shared our return flight with pilgrims returning
from the Hajj. The luggage carousel
carries white box after white box marked ZamZam Water. I ask and I am told that this is water, holy
to Muslims, from the well at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city></st1:place>. It has physical and spiritual healing
properties and they will share it with their family and friends.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The story of ZamZam water is even older than that of Moses. In
the Genesis story, Abraham (Ibrahim) has a child, Ishmael, by Hagar (Hajar) the
slave of his wife Sara. At Sara’s bidding, Abraham abandons Hagar in the
desert, where according to Genesis Chapter 16 Verse 7 …<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the angel of the LORD</i> [Gabriel or Jibreel] <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">found her by the fountain of water in the wilderness…<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Muslims trace their descent and the descent of the Prophet
Mohammed (pbuh) from Ibrahim by Ishmael’s line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Islamic traditional story (there is more than one
version) has it that Hajar walked between two hills in the desert seven times
looking for water and help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The angel
Jibreel came down and created a spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hajar, seeing the water going to waste cried out “Zam, zam!” [Stop, stop],
hence the name of the well, which is sited close to the Kaaba at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city></st1:place>. That Hajar, a slave,
should be so horrified by water going to waste that she dared shout “Stop!” at
the angel Gabriel feels like the authentic voice of a true desert dweller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was in this place that <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city></st1:place> was founded.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Muslim pilgrims recreate Hajar’s walk between the two hills
as sanctioned by the Holy Qur’an at Sura 2: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Safa
and Marwa </i>[the two hills]<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> are among
the rites of God. Whoever makes the Pilgrimage to the House, as performs the
Umrah, commits no error by circulating between them…<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Three tales from the Book and a common reverence for water
show that we all base much of our culture and beliefs on a small set of very old stories.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.vjv.com/" target="_blank">Jules Verne</a></o:p></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-46442029365914880352023-01-17T01:30:00.001-08:002023-01-17T01:30:47.883-08:00The Man in the Piazza at Santa Margherita Ligure<p> I am pleased to say that one of my travel pieces has been published by the excellent travel journal, Scrawl Place.</p><p>You can read it here:</p><p><a href="https://scrawlplace.com/2023/01/17/the-man-in-the-piazza-at-santa-margherita-ligure/" target="_blank">Scrawl Place</a><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I hope you enjoy it.</p><p>David</p><p>The Ancient Traveller</p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com016038 Santa Margherita Ligure, Metropolitan City of Genoa, Italy44.3254364 9.195443216.015202563821155 -25.9608068 72.635670236178839 44.3516932tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-48200732588143866542022-10-22T07:03:00.001-07:002024-02-04T01:23:22.931-08:00 An Enigmatic Lady Observed at Kusadasi<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5f8pIcEMtMjzaDwEs1LqkA5pg7VwSdPHm8nAcRE-LnaX11E4gNyUI0RQ-1MVa-2FBuLqVO8C9MdRKUekGC3hiDbX2Y_kRyn9j1rA8fDwaMyJdyrvUX02AL98M-yzOh4xn1sWQBpALS8WXnXD21nLjdvchJFOCxdcbxD7Yr81J0qmZe8RobwuQDTrNfg/s2816/IMG_2090.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5f8pIcEMtMjzaDwEs1LqkA5pg7VwSdPHm8nAcRE-LnaX11E4gNyUI0RQ-1MVa-2FBuLqVO8C9MdRKUekGC3hiDbX2Y_kRyn9j1rA8fDwaMyJdyrvUX02AL98M-yzOh4xn1sWQBpALS8WXnXD21nLjdvchJFOCxdcbxD7Yr81J0qmZe8RobwuQDTrNfg/s320/IMG_2090.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Entrance to Kusadasi Harbour - Adrienne Higham</div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On board the MS Monet at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Kusadasi</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Turkey</st1:country-region></st1:place>
September 2022</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p>On the opposite side of the quay
from our modestly sized ship was a giant cruise liner. While we were waiting to
depart for a trip to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Ephesus</st1:city></st1:place>
the never-ending line of tourists leaving the cruise ship gave me an
opportunity for people watching. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Somewhat apart from the general run
of people walking along the quay was an elderly lady. She was lavishly made-up
and dressed in an immaculately pressed white shorts-suit. I imagined her to be
the widow of a successful American automobile<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dealer, at whose demise, her hair
had turned quite gold with grief. (Thanks for the line, Mr Wilde). She toddled
along the jetty, her back bent, towing a wheelie suitcase. I was intrigued but
thought no more of her until much later in the day when she and we returned to
our ships at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There she
was, transformed. She had a new hair band that matched a royal
blue chiffon ballgown all in flounces and frills. It was now clear that her
suitcase had contained this change of clothes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This time, she was in a wheelchair
pushed by a muscular young gentleman dressed in the livery of a porter of some
grand hotel. She stood up and parted from her new friend with a fulsome and
tearful embrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel sure she had
spent her time ashore well but exactly how she did must remain a mystery.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.noble-caledonia.co.uk/" target="_blank">Noble Caledonia</a></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Kuşadası, Aydın, Turkey37.857913 27.2610159.547679163821158 -7.895235 66.168146836178849 62.417265tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-26186380114226310722022-10-20T02:44:00.003-07:002023-05-18T08:59:17.962-07:00The Power of Myth<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGA-SZj_xfWokrLwQNPe1MWIKv5KckmqCXpVOjJF4c2JnxVICz8PeHdrJbsir-W0qpnHtloGQlHwLdFXvOeUR8AseEP1lb2mevbpYmJNIwyrGxVS7wDarexRpueXEGnVxSNhAPivuImh0aKF5ST2Qe5ZC5ghEgwCvSMa3MJU0a2wwSAeTeV9ohWrJLlQ/s1536/DA8E7E33-BA97-47C1-8FE5-18996F0175F5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGA-SZj_xfWokrLwQNPe1MWIKv5KckmqCXpVOjJF4c2JnxVICz8PeHdrJbsir-W0qpnHtloGQlHwLdFXvOeUR8AseEP1lb2mevbpYmJNIwyrGxVS7wDarexRpueXEGnVxSNhAPivuImh0aKF5ST2Qe5ZC5ghEgwCvSMa3MJU0a2wwSAeTeV9ohWrJLlQ/s320/DA8E7E33-BA97-47C1-8FE5-18996F0175F5.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i>“His
head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as
a flame of fire;” </i>Revelation 1:14</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></b>In about 95 AD in a cave on the
Greek <st1:placetype w:st="on">island</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Patmos</st1:placename>,
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">St. John</st1:city></st1:place>, the
beloved disciple of Jesus of Nazareth, by then an old man saw a revelation sent
to him through a three-legged crack in the rock ceiling of the cave that was
his home. He dictated what he saw to his servant, who wrote down what is now
the last book in the Christian Bible, the Book of Revelation. In September 2022,
I was standing in that very cave.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Everything in that paragraph is untrue.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">It was in the 11<sup>th</sup>
Century that the cave in which I was standing was discovered and identified as
the cave in which the revelation of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">St
John</st1:city></st1:place> occurred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The 11<sup>th</sup> Century was not a time noted for the forensic rigour
of its archaeology. The Book of Revelation does of course exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the last chapter to be added to the
canon of Christian literature and not until the 4<sup>th</sup> Century AD,
reflecting some doubts about its authenticity held by the early church
bishops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Book of Revelation does
identify “John” as its author but no one knows which John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is nothing to suggest that the vision
reached the Saint through a three-pronged crack in the ceiling. So, while I was
standing in a cave, any cave would have done.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Nor can anyone demonstrate that the
vision was sent to the old saint by God rather than being a chimera emanating
from the mind of a senile old man.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Standing in the chapel that has
been set up in the cave, I could see the famous fissure in the ceiling and see
the rock, on which, it is claimed, John laid his head.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">My left brain was hard at work;
it’s all rubbish, I thought.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">But then …</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I had arrived early.
Embarrassingly, I walked into the tiny chapel while a Greek Orthodox mass was
coming to its end. The light of a few candles, reflected from the burnished
gold of ancient icons, cast the cave into amber light and dark shadows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I breathed in air infused with incense. The deep
baritone voice of a priest, chanting in Greek, and echoing from every bend in
the rock, filled the air with ethereal sound. The priest, himself, was dressed
in long white robes and a wide gold belt, over which he wore a surplice of
white cotton, soft as gauze and decorated with tiny, brightly coloured
embroidered flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he turned, he
revealed fiery eyes and a long beard, white like wool, as white as snow.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">‘That’s what God must look like,”
came the awed whisper from my wife. She really is the World’s least convincing
atheist.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">My right brain asserted itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in a place that had been the object of
sincere faith and veneration for more than a thousand years. That can get to
you and it did. I had not been convinced but I had been profoundly moved.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Note: Picture credit <a href="https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/ARCHELAOS?ref=shop_sugg">ARCHELAOS - Etsy UK</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.noble-caledonia.co.uk/">Noble Caledonia</a></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com1Patmos, Patmos Municipality 855 00, Greece37.3129763 26.54687739.0027424638211571 -8.6093727000000015 65.623210136178841 61.7031273tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-75608331977177945282022-10-15T05:49:00.001-07:002023-05-18T08:56:25.617-07:00A Lost Empire on the Island of Folegandros<p>September 2022</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis78aAKfrE_YES9YKFkv3Ro_QEVEmWf5kES2yiaiZYcY5z1nB4-eBJAUoNnNKPP8ukfWAsj5wDmwf7QnPh0pv91SWCsolSAf2ISrho2QG5flNGH1BGpxThm3LT0hx__sEq5CpndmgZ6OwKStQKeuDdbDe9HJyzQOiJDVPeCh7ZoLtaQDoPOIJ7wkGJaQ/s5184/DSC08226.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis78aAKfrE_YES9YKFkv3Ro_QEVEmWf5kES2yiaiZYcY5z1nB4-eBJAUoNnNKPP8ukfWAsj5wDmwf7QnPh0pv91SWCsolSAf2ISrho2QG5flNGH1BGpxThm3LT0hx__sEq5CpndmgZ6OwKStQKeuDdbDe9HJyzQOiJDVPeCh7ZoLtaQDoPOIJ7wkGJaQ/s320/DSC08226.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The tiny town <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">square</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Chora</st1:placename></st1:place>, capital of the
Greek Island Folegandros is everything it should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White houses with blue, almost indigo, doors
and windows surround the square. In the centre are the chairs and tables of a
café under the shade of fig and hibiscus trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cutlery clinks: people chatter.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is the feast day of the Holy Cross and the church that
takes up one side of the square is flying two flags, bright against an azure
sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One, the Greek flag, reflects in
its stripes, the blue and white of the houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The other flag has an intricate design in maroon and yellow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the flag of the <st1:place w:st="on">Byzantine
Empire</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a model for
taking a long and optimistic view of history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The <st1:place w:st="on">Byzantine Empire</st1:place> fell over half a
millennium ago. Sultan Mehmed II, leading the forces of the Ottoman Empire
sacked <st1:place w:st="on">Constantinople</st1:place> after a 53-day siege on
29<sup>th</sup> May 1453.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Still, hope springs eternal…, I guess.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrbvbg3eGkgjGTLH_Rt4cnF4ClyvSPLWB3fMaNK4_HZu_hBmFWXJLsNr421gpxNHEF1l-SgBkJ7nm-ZYHcoTOFHZsMpbrCHNOv7aOCmlzbnvpc1N48LS_5gX31bwMy-M14yIe8FAmbsPoVZxQBhRHqJ2CTdknGdE2l6AwKcvwKLp-BT2VGGv_bllJEg/s2816/IMG_1945.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrbvbg3eGkgjGTLH_Rt4cnF4ClyvSPLWB3fMaNK4_HZu_hBmFWXJLsNr421gpxNHEF1l-SgBkJ7nm-ZYHcoTOFHZsMpbrCHNOv7aOCmlzbnvpc1N48LS_5gX31bwMy-M14yIe8FAmbsPoVZxQBhRHqJ2CTdknGdE2l6AwKcvwKLp-BT2VGGv_bllJEg/s320/IMG_1945.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo by Adrienne Higham</div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.noble-caledonia.co.uk/">Noble Caledonia</a></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Folegandros Greece36.6287384 24.92066518.3185045638211577 -10.2355849 64.938972236178842 60.0769151tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-15061516691136770932022-08-08T00:53:00.001-07:002022-10-22T07:04:52.489-07:00Kursk<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbha1iljYs4JGAER3KXOgOUzkYr001jPlceoyxT1ebDQGRZ5I0s8tR65tFTWNtHais-KWbt0E0OGxh8cvLp_Pag8rsRwq9VXx88MWf_qwTq9wqr4cjS2kxlgm9161RXx25b79mzA-p4E2naTJhRPxvJcyA4UHCJIDtSKQlY1vK6Dd1cAO7Y__AT7WyJQ/s3664/Kursk%20LR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2748" data-original-width="3664" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbha1iljYs4JGAER3KXOgOUzkYr001jPlceoyxT1ebDQGRZ5I0s8tR65tFTWNtHais-KWbt0E0OGxh8cvLp_Pag8rsRwq9VXx88MWf_qwTq9wqr4cjS2kxlgm9161RXx25b79mzA-p4E2naTJhRPxvJcyA4UHCJIDtSKQlY1vK6Dd1cAO7Y__AT7WyJQ/s320/Kursk%20LR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Way back in 2012, I visited <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Murmansk</st1:city></st1:place> in the far North of Russia. The Russian submarine <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kursk</st1:place></st1:city>, you may remember, suffered a
catastrophic explosion in August 2000 and sank with all hands. I went to the Museum of the Russian Northern
Fleet to pay my respects to our old adversary.
There was an outdoor memorial to the men who lost their lives
constructed from the recovered bridge fin of the submarine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There were other exhibits inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not all of the crew died immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small group survived for a time in the
after compartment of the boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent
quite some time gazing at the very note on which they had written their names
in the darkness.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The note stayed with me and I have written a very short (101
words) story about it. The story has
been published online and here is the link. <a href="https://101words.org/kursk/" target="_blank">Kursk</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-43561522443881818022022-07-16T12:01:00.000-07:002022-07-16T12:01:38.593-07:00The Enkhuizer Almanak<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb3y7kS07tKgm6qw2Ayf9gJKa1D8zzFAHygFVd1r-JIoFt4bDLnotGwgK8lrrggnw47jc8uOacDkKPhSsvOhbo2QvwhdNgjplBZL1eYlNbQ-tMuA65k6EdAfIRv7Eiqudwx87ptEfNTEp1I-bnbbQ_zm1ePCgU3p4zTth_eVV3Rjan2tH7ZaYTMDtSw/s1052/IMG_0682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="1052" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb3y7kS07tKgm6qw2Ayf9gJKa1D8zzFAHygFVd1r-JIoFt4bDLnotGwgK8lrrggnw47jc8uOacDkKPhSsvOhbo2QvwhdNgjplBZL1eYlNbQ-tMuA65k6EdAfIRv7Eiqudwx87ptEfNTEp1I-bnbbQ_zm1ePCgU3p4zTth_eVV3Rjan2tH7ZaYTMDtSw/s320/IMG_0682.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo Kevin Hoggett</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">A fat, dense, little book sits in my hand. </span><span style="text-align: left;">It has a scarlet bookmark ribbon.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">The cover shows a simple woodblock picture in
red on a pale background.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">The picture is
of old man in traditional Dutch fisherman’s clothes, smoking a pipe. There is a
Dutch barge and a windmill in the background.</span><span style="text-align: left;">
</span><span style="text-align: left;">The fisherman is, himself, holding a copy of the little book and so the
picture is an infinite regression. Later, I learn that this is called the
Droste effect after a 1904 advertisement for a brand of Dutch cocoa. There is
something very pleasing about the look and heft of this book.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4uHwJneXJatq9JcooorAJnHBSjjY-uxlvLi4cTbDFwbCI0006HeIJ1nMaZiL9KOLiN0ITGhz81pH8m6VdRoCxr7ps5fcA8dwTwTQsc2goVB-Pl4DMT40X0W_gzu7qoHVS8Py4HVRogia3tQ8qtf-afQhoXQ1_q5PhqvnyE9e_wRWWtu1fi8O_1NDOg/s4158/20220531_175207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4158" data-original-width="3119" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4uHwJneXJatq9JcooorAJnHBSjjY-uxlvLi4cTbDFwbCI0006HeIJ1nMaZiL9KOLiN0ITGhz81pH8m6VdRoCxr7ps5fcA8dwTwTQsc2goVB-Pl4DMT40X0W_gzu7qoHVS8Py4HVRogia3tQ8qtf-afQhoXQ1_q5PhqvnyE9e_wRWWtu1fi8O_1NDOg/s320/20220531_175207.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am in the railway station at <st1:city w:st="on">Hoorn</st1:city>
in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Netherlands</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shall shortly depart by steam train to
Medemblik, from where I shall travel by the vintage motor ship Friesland to the
small town of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Enkhuizen</st1:city></st1:place>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the station souvenir shop, the book is on sale for just
one Euro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see why; the book’s title
is Enkhuizer Almanak 2019 and it is three years out of date but it has
something to do with Enkhuizen. I happily part with a Euro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the train, I settle down to explore my new
purchase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has 288 pages all in Dutch
so it is going to take some enjoyable effort to work it all out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I quickly recognise tide tables for <st1:city w:st="on">Harlingen</st1:city>,
<st1:city w:st="on">Den Helder</st1:city>, Tershchelling, <st1:city w:st="on">Rotterdam</st1:city>
and <st1:place w:st="on">Hook of Holland</st1:place>; names that take my mind
to shipping forecasts, ferry timetables and small craft warfare in World War 2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is a heavy-handed joke about Facebook on page 200 which
is not improved by Google translate and on page 150, a sketch of rather a
cheeky mermaid.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ef3EavZG4WFYDMvEE37_JCLJwbK0KzpyDEO1Iq-06bDeobdh8GyqTpXpb5plKcy-cIHosaJto6OxY0BLpzYR7Px9rtUkZHJXzSojdI6_-9QKc2xvZpg7U2silg1sad67agGQcHcR85iJPvS3VAo-ddB9ifT4fkAHSBHHP30i-Drmx1_qLK7RHOeDDg/s4624/20220531_195343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3468" data-original-width="4624" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ef3EavZG4WFYDMvEE37_JCLJwbK0KzpyDEO1Iq-06bDeobdh8GyqTpXpb5plKcy-cIHosaJto6OxY0BLpzYR7Px9rtUkZHJXzSojdI6_-9QKc2xvZpg7U2silg1sad67agGQcHcR85iJPvS3VAo-ddB9ifT4fkAHSBHHP30i-Drmx1_qLK7RHOeDDg/s320/20220531_195343.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is something else on the cover: “424<sup>ste</sup>
Jaargang” which must mean 424th annual edition; this book has history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may have first been published in 1595 when
Queen Elizabeth I was on the throne of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place> and Sir Francis Drake set off
on his final voyage. In <st1:city w:st="on">Holland</st1:city>, the first Dutch
expedition to the <st1:place w:st="on">East Indies</st1:place> set off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I later learn that the oldest surviving copy
of the Enkhuizer Almanak was printed in the town in 1680.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a splendid and remarkable achievement it
is to keep this small book in publication for so long. I continue to explore and find the dates for the sheep
market in Oldebrook and the Pentecost market in Brummen Easte, events I didn’t
know I had missed. One of many household
hints tells me that candles last longer if they have been put in the freezer before
use. I can even check on the regulations
for the flying of flags. What a store of esoteric knowledge.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have arrived in Enkhuizen, a charming small port with canals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife Adrienne is lost in a haze of fantasy
house buying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tells me she wants to
retire to Enkhuizen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fear that I am
not included and that she plans to retire from being my wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL7AUMqppGCYEjwM6JYnfmWkOC1fI__5Yf4R1mZoDFgNNj5pfUYO_J4rwJFMJ_v-CaC4LSJa3oJeSILi9rVGklQ-5nNnzk1NQ9OO3_c2my2VbUmMWpcOKizuIauCQw8FoQbNrF4M7nWBi80w4OE4tWPYP32QEov1WsVs6ITEj_XNsPyWMWZHoVn2TdA/s2816/IMG_1901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL7AUMqppGCYEjwM6JYnfmWkOC1fI__5Yf4R1mZoDFgNNj5pfUYO_J4rwJFMJ_v-CaC4LSJa3oJeSILi9rVGklQ-5nNnzk1NQ9OO3_c2my2VbUmMWpcOKizuIauCQw8FoQbNrF4M7nWBi80w4OE4tWPYP32QEov1WsVs6ITEj_XNsPyWMWZHoVn2TdA/s320/IMG_1901.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo by Adrienne Higham</div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Almanak has its own museum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the old cold store for the fish
market.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is small like the Almanak and
closed on the day of my visit but I discover that there is a website, which I
shall explore later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, we
enjoy dinner in Schipperscafe ‘t Ankertje (Skippers’ Pub at the Little Anchor).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fb3PYuOSLNRvfK0lGgfDcid8ikBlH4TClD2-UqIVI7BgU25ae8ktnS1ZzYhtMX08osCghyUVfS_kIYjrmatrVV4ECSD3BOT-DlKRiSh5YZk8Vi75DBBs2g6EjoUIKguDRhqI6gq2D-nlO4CNmSc3n63WReBj-FDjVTG4ApgccHSG_9RyamXSMYVnXg/s3735/DSC00834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2802" data-original-width="3735" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fb3PYuOSLNRvfK0lGgfDcid8ikBlH4TClD2-UqIVI7BgU25ae8ktnS1ZzYhtMX08osCghyUVfS_kIYjrmatrVV4ECSD3BOT-DlKRiSh5YZk8Vi75DBBs2g6EjoUIKguDRhqI6gq2D-nlO4CNmSc3n63WReBj-FDjVTG4ApgccHSG_9RyamXSMYVnXg/s320/DSC00834.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I get home, I open up the website.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Almanak has its own weather forecasting
system, supported by its own corps of weather observers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It works on the principal of reversal days
that divide weather into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">decades</i> of
10 days about which weather changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
would tell you more but the full explanation is in Dutch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I still keep the Enkhuizer Almanak on my desk more as a
paperweight than a reference resource.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
just like it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Notes:</p>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><a href="https://www.stoomtram.nl/" target="_blank">Hoorn Medemblik Stoomtram</a><br /></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><a href="https://www.almanak.nl/" target="_blank">The Enkhuizer Almnak and its Museum</a><br /></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><a href="http://cafe-ankertje.nl">Schipperscafe t'ankertje</a><br /></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;">I travelled with the excellent <a href="https://www.ptg.co.uk/">PTG Tours</a><br /></li>
</ol>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Enkhuizen, Netherlands52.7075663 5.274119600000000624.397332463821158 -29.8821304 81.017800136178849 40.4303696tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-45719814375459575062022-06-13T03:15:00.004-07:002022-07-07T23:46:22.670-07:00The Best Little Hat Shop in Utrecht<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEiQ6q5mDD_G2Zo8900h1F-b_FqBPKgWoK-3bo1REptq1dbFJd9IY550srAasiOePWnYITUjn8zlFbsLcJPvngh9n9UfC-6W01xB_Iw0qKCIxW5pcT6FqP3wK-ivTfH4SSnG85NMCSDf7ndeI6RDqrG8Dz65eC8_4Ij58YeNI8HpCx2ZCp06nA9CZfw/s4624/20220524_163629.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEiQ6q5mDD_G2Zo8900h1F-b_FqBPKgWoK-3bo1REptq1dbFJd9IY550srAasiOePWnYITUjn8zlFbsLcJPvngh9n9UfC-6W01xB_Iw0qKCIxW5pcT6FqP3wK-ivTfH4SSnG85NMCSDf7ndeI6RDqrG8Dz65eC8_4Ij58YeNI8HpCx2ZCp06nA9CZfw/s320/20220524_163629.jpg" width="240" /></a><p></p><p> Unusually, I had not planned our visit to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Utrecht</st1:place></st1:city> so I did not know what I might
find. I certainly did not expect to find
a very fine hatter or, in Dutch, <i>Hoedenzaak.</i> It was the establishment of Mr Jos van Dijck
and Mr van Dijck knows the business of hatting.
Above his shop, at number 12 Bakkerstraat, was an elegant, metal, cutout
sign showing the name of his business and three classic hats. His brightly lit
window displayed a cascade of fine hats for both men and women.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Ja1jMerbv5lmYA4Vor5ZE8Lp-TZYXCjw84yxlhNl7BUVFAMBQBAzfOxi3ubx6-Z6zflaGQTWavQany4kgWQwe73oJ7fg7Ft2Tp0Rj-29hWcqbuvNM48mtz78war9tBEXg-wUTQlBtSvaNlWB6tNXrET0gV-UgkFYVvPul1QZjb5JHfny8UfEt4Ijag/s3753/20220524_163138.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3753" data-original-width="2815" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Ja1jMerbv5lmYA4Vor5ZE8Lp-TZYXCjw84yxlhNl7BUVFAMBQBAzfOxi3ubx6-Z6zflaGQTWavQany4kgWQwe73oJ7fg7Ft2Tp0Rj-29hWcqbuvNM48mtz78war9tBEXg-wUTQlBtSvaNlWB6tNXrET0gV-UgkFYVvPul1QZjb5JHfny8UfEt4Ijag/s320/20220524_163138.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course I did not need to buy a hat so we went in just for a look. Mr van Dijck was busy with a customer, a young man of fastidious fashion sense who was taking a long time to decide between two Panama hats. One was a classic Panama and the other had a chequered pattern. The latter was the sort of hat at which, had Bertie Wooster tried it on, Jeeves would have raised an eyebrow. I thought better of stepping in to give advice even though I feel I know a bit about Panama hats. See my article: <a href="http://www.theancienttraveller.com/2019/05/almost-not-buying-panama-hat-in-ecuador.html" target="_blank">The Panama Hat Story</a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Still determined not to buy, I now had time to look
around. There were a lot of hats. There was not much in the way of
millinery. The women's’ hats were classic
and unfussy. The Queen could find a hat
here. It was, thanks be, no place to buy
a fascinator, For both men and women
there were Panamas, trilbies, fedoras, boaters and bowlers, caps and cloches,
in all fabrics and colours. However you
walked into that shop, you could walk out in style. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My eye fell upon a natty paperboy cap in woven sea grass.
Its open weave would be cool in summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I tried it on — too small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Noticing my interest, Mr van Dijck left the young man still with a hat
in each hand to attend to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He agreed
it was too small.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Too much hair,’ I said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Too much brain,’ he said, recycling a joke as old and
threadbare as a well-loved flat cap.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was not sure if he had it in a bigger size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went downstairs to look but came back
shaking his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He checked that the
young man had not yet made a decision and sat down at his computer and tapped
at the keys for about a minute, his face glum.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Sorry, I don’t have a bigger one in stock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems I do not even have that one.’<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal">Notes:</p><p class="MsoNormal">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.ptg.co.uk/" target="_blank">PTG Tours</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Utrecht, Netherlands52.090737399999988 5.121420123.780503563821142 -30.0348299 80.400971236178833 40.2776701tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-85823196799373582482022-06-05T07:32:00.007-07:002023-05-18T09:03:10.113-07:00Riding a Renegade Tram in Rotterdam<p>Judy Garland’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trolley
Song</i> has been an earworm since my tram ride round <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Rotterdam</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:city w:st="on">Rotterdam</st1:city>’s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tram</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>
is just by the Kootskade tram stop on the No. 4 or 8 lines. As I walked into
this old tram shed, I smelled the warm aroma of lubricating oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was good and I inhaled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enthusiastic volunteers run the Museum and
care for its many trams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are
plenty of trams of all ages to climb in and out of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two volunteers looked after our small
group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They disappeared for a few
minutes and returned splendidly dressed in proper tram driver and conductor
uniforms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYp8Z0x_b7PkCXBD-vcVL9gpaCbiMj3axc4XEVqiSiv9Kx4aZX_zQ283citUXosjc_Tjn_HyPydjQNWcHCVkR6rg7S2Es73gG9PIDbnwowWXuMIQ45pZsj7Ro072B5yUVwpex2tumHo05KzXqglQGb2Vq3YYlnsI3NUyNIMugVWmsjNGM6Fmy70jgQog/s1024/IMG_0511.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYp8Z0x_b7PkCXBD-vcVL9gpaCbiMj3axc4XEVqiSiv9Kx4aZX_zQ283citUXosjc_Tjn_HyPydjQNWcHCVkR6rg7S2Es73gG9PIDbnwowWXuMIQ45pZsj7Ro072B5yUVwpex2tumHo05KzXqglQGb2Vq3YYlnsI3NUyNIMugVWmsjNGM6Fmy70jgQog/s320/IMG_0511.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We boarded a 90-year-old tramcar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> '</span>Ding, ding, ding,' went the bell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tram clanged and, with a screech of steel
wheel on steel rail, we sped out of the shed onto a side street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a hundred yards we stopped, with a bump of
the brakes, at a junction with <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Rotterdam</st1:place></st1:city>’s
main tram system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having checked, the
way was clear we accelerated onto the main track and headed towards the centre
of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Rotterdam</st1:place></st1:city>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our driver had told us that he had had a year of training to
qualify.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He and we now had the run of
the city’s tramlines; he took us wherever he wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All he had to do was to avoid disturbing the
routine trams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stopped for a photo
shoot but, suddenly, he hurried us back aboard, “There’s a No. 24 coming up
behind us!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Indeed there was. We sped away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0-weEnbFNi21OZuPVxXbbc29b8MlqDHCH7zaNVtFKEFGOdQSBOfeNNG32joaWVqeNRxcAjGNm7NQaaEkWhlLMdh2--zwIxquQSUiGCOGOfqhT4UZ7XoM3Ialli-BDN_G0S-wpPSc9gAVYgeLG7bq75MccN4AsK422iFIVlu5Dgpgtlre38xwGZVYMg/s959/IMG_0505%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="959" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0-weEnbFNi21OZuPVxXbbc29b8MlqDHCH7zaNVtFKEFGOdQSBOfeNNG32joaWVqeNRxcAjGNm7NQaaEkWhlLMdh2--zwIxquQSUiGCOGOfqhT4UZ7XoM3Ialli-BDN_G0S-wpPSc9gAVYgeLG7bq75MccN4AsK422iFIVlu5Dgpgtlre38xwGZVYMg/s320/IMG_0505%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSoGh0V42wXUDemvhynogKYty0sySVGHAkV8lCAWW1Xj5FYA4SQJ40ueYn7rAdTfe93r64CPYSA93wTdyaqCGRWD1SLQ_eLv43sr23HeDsWx28mcmX1m1xES-U5DmC3VVOLhlNNa9ZIXUpMEHBe57rn6lNG43JClDVrYejvnDnD0ZK5pR6xO2EX362g/s1280/IMG_0508.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSoGh0V42wXUDemvhynogKYty0sySVGHAkV8lCAWW1Xj5FYA4SQJ40ueYn7rAdTfe93r64CPYSA93wTdyaqCGRWD1SLQ_eLv43sr23HeDsWx28mcmX1m1xES-U5DmC3VVOLhlNNa9ZIXUpMEHBe57rn6lNG43JClDVrYejvnDnD0ZK5pR6xO2EX362g/s320/IMG_0508.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On some of the outer reaches of the system, we did U-turns
on loops at the end of lines, where our conductor had to get out and change
points.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAiOEaj2QASyQRSryM9oc-1tQHfy7aPdTSxM3Jvlf5sCpcYDcrLYBWrHUHS15nh2Ignx9Dhj3wJ6LC1xhwvcmWinHmgQv3Ov5M-emtibxAeSAcwYlFao81bFLNsY9OoacrYrqeXzNkB44r9DVqKYvf2E1LSmlnX-_kRz3jR7har4jsFhldi-bEfBP2qw/s1280/IMG_0507.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAiOEaj2QASyQRSryM9oc-1tQHfy7aPdTSxM3Jvlf5sCpcYDcrLYBWrHUHS15nh2Ignx9Dhj3wJ6LC1xhwvcmWinHmgQv3Ov5M-emtibxAeSAcwYlFao81bFLNsY9OoacrYrqeXzNkB44r9DVqKYvf2E1LSmlnX-_kRz3jR7har4jsFhldi-bEfBP2qw/s320/IMG_0507.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For about 90 minutes, we enjoyed a swaying, squealing,
clanging tour of the fine city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Rotterdam</st1:place></st1:city>. 'Zing,' went my heartstrings.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_iyXp_WW-b0ljdu8P-YZ7LZyle-mGm0ylDOaoslI4pA9CAsZ0w4smfz3zDKlNP9nBUUYdTSOxkB8JPfaIcU81nkJIRRZ5KK9p3LLzT6XBldcMmqKMKAX5e4ShqkRWr3-chskT2AOZlBseO9TFhKYdVrSlBlPofbYNx64vvmPYT1CuQACPCA6MRCa6w/s1280/IMG_0514.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_iyXp_WW-b0ljdu8P-YZ7LZyle-mGm0ylDOaoslI4pA9CAsZ0w4smfz3zDKlNP9nBUUYdTSOxkB8JPfaIcU81nkJIRRZ5KK9p3LLzT6XBldcMmqKMKAX5e4ShqkRWr3-chskT2AOZlBseO9TFhKYdVrSlBlPofbYNx64vvmPYT1CuQACPCA6MRCa6w/s320/IMG_0514.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b>Information</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p>The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Trolley</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>
has limited opening hours. Vintage tram
rides are by charter or a hop-on-off from May to October Thursday to Sunday
only.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><a href="https://www.stichtingromeo.nl/">Rotterdam Tram Museum</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><a href="https://www.stichtingromeo.nl/nl/lijn-10/route-lijn-10/" target="_blank">Tram Line 10</a><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I travelled with the excellent <a href="https://www.ptg.co.uk/" target="_blank">PTG Tours</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black;">Photo
credits: Kevin Hogget</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black;">Trolley Song written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane<o:p></o:p></span></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-59384150501775309392022-05-27T13:29:00.001-07:002022-08-03T06:53:42.428-07:00The Stone Axe-Head — a Long Journey in Time<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0wMjsK8hd-3zafPbgcy2k7qyFD2wpDR76lsqsjB8sNDAdkKhPRvW9PqBGllaqRp5uwGEzxKxUkkoS2VJWv_Bbpxe_g7IWxRBO_Am4GPN9a445Y_qOLWJpLkjdH9Jv13szHMZwLlsb5iD9e34nIDV_TcLbh5jJfHFntkODZqQyBBtWt-QG1hdSVQssQ/s2782/Axe-head.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1425" data-original-width="2782" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0wMjsK8hd-3zafPbgcy2k7qyFD2wpDR76lsqsjB8sNDAdkKhPRvW9PqBGllaqRp5uwGEzxKxUkkoS2VJWv_Bbpxe_g7IWxRBO_Am4GPN9a445Y_qOLWJpLkjdH9Jv13szHMZwLlsb5iD9e34nIDV_TcLbh5jJfHFntkODZqQyBBtWt-QG1hdSVQssQ/s320/Axe-head.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the <st1:placename w:st="on">British</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype>’s stunning exhibition<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <st1:place w:st="on">Stonehenge</st1:place><a href="file:///C:/Users/Default%20User.DESKTOP-2BN249E/Documents/ScanSoft%20Documents/Writing/The%20Stone%20Axe%20Head.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">[1]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a></i>,
is a beautiful and remarkable object. It is a stone axe-head and it has a
story, a long story.</p><p class="MsoNormal">In 1942 BCE (that is 4,000 years ago) in what is now <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>, a
family buried their father, a man whose name we do not know. With him, they buried the stone axe-head that
I gazed at and revisited at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">British</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The axe-head is about the length and girth of a boy’s
forearm from elbow to wrist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is symmetrical
in two planes and pierced at its heavier end by a precisely circular hole for
the haft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The colour of the stone is
elusive. At first glance, it is dark grey, just short of black. As you look at
it, the darkness varies; there is a hint of green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone has polished the surface to a deep
shine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are flecks and hints of
red, blue and green appear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One end
comes to a rounded chisel tip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
other, the haft end, is thicker and blunt like a hammer All its edges are
pleasingly rounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could have
picked it up, it would have had heft.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The axe-head is ornamental far beyond utility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A rougher piece of rock would do just as well
at cracking a skull.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This object is a masterpiece of Stone Age art and artisanship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone working with stones, sand and animal
hide spent weeks making it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The man it was buried with lived at a time when, in <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>, the Stone Age was giving way, after 1.3 million
years, to the Bronze Age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man’s sons
may have wondered at their father’s attachment to old technology before laying
it in his grave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">British</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>
describes the axe as a symbol of power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It requires no greater speculation to think they placed it in the grave
as a mark of respect.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The man lived long before Homer. He was a near contemporary
of Abraham. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But it is the axe-head that has the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time it was buried with him, it was
already 2,500 years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can never know
the name of the Stone Age Artisan who perfected this object 6,500 years ago,
when the Sahara was green and work would not start on <st1:place w:st="on">Stonehenge</st1:place>
for another two millennia. What is truly extraordinary is people revered and
cherished this work of art for 120 generations before they buried it with its
last owner.</p>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Default%20User.DESKTOP-2BN249E/Documents/ScanSoft%20Documents/Writing/The%20Stone%20Axe%20Head.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/exhibitions/world-stonehenge?gclid=CjwKCAjw7cGUBhA9EiwArBAvohU3TpN7mnnhPC0a_o5E5PAOJuksfXR60bNs8NRDrOpIXmgKi9xgwRoCWzcQAvD_BwE" target="_blank">British Museum - Stonehenge</a></p>
</div>
</div>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-58970703448189268372022-05-15T01:50:00.004-07:002022-05-15T01:50:39.771-07:00Phoney Portofino and Congenial Camogli<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b>Portofino</b> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAatMdKjjuoqlMelD5f_KLg6UCAqnc1KfwJIP2gWaeH6MuXoi95CIq5Vu5CYc5SjPNSAkM6v_d03byme87mvmT71n-vMjDadjtA16RG-apMQhuhKqH06PucENwp6jCEfrw47WJi8kKS2gCZ2wBZ0wPsS81r6i8hhx2GY3UjZtuDMnkdGsmwfmUGM8K-Q/s2816/IMG_1519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAatMdKjjuoqlMelD5f_KLg6UCAqnc1KfwJIP2gWaeH6MuXoi95CIq5Vu5CYc5SjPNSAkM6v_d03byme87mvmT71n-vMjDadjtA16RG-apMQhuhKqH06PucENwp6jCEfrw47WJi8kKS2gCZ2wBZ0wPsS81r6i8hhx2GY3UjZtuDMnkdGsmwfmUGM8K-Q/s320/IMG_1519.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The ferry from Santa Margherita
disgorged about 150 of us onto the quay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another ferry was close behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the top end of the tiny town, buses were unloading 50 tourists at a
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were not alone in making a day
trip to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place>.
Every holiday brochure for the Italian Riviera shows a picture of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place> is said to have permanent
population of just 450.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was five
times that number jamming its only street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place>
is a fake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its appearance is fake; its
charm is fake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a celebrity of a
destination, famous for being famous because famous people have made it so. Its
buildings are painted in trompe-l’oeil to make them appear stone built with
elegant arches and folderol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The variation
in colours comes from a palette determined by the local commune drawing on some
long-forgotten tradition.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Over a century ago, in the days
when it was an unspoiled fishing village, rich and famous people built gorgeous
villas above the town. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">New generations of the rich and
famous discovered this rich man’s hideaway. They bought up or rented the villas
and moored their gigantic yachts in the little harbour.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And so, the day-trippers, me,
included come to see this celebrity enclave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The town has developed to welcome us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Restaurants line the streets and their tables surge out onto the town
square and the quay. In between there are smart shops; I spotted Dior and
Balenciaga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few local clothes
boutiques offer classy summer wear at a price. Then there are cheap pizza
takeaways and tacky souvenir shops for the rest of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is still money on show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the restaurants were high maintenance
people who would not look out of place at <st1:place w:st="on">Henley</st1:place>
or in <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Sloane Square</st1:address></st1:street>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you had that sort of money, why would you
choose to eat your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zuppa de pesce</i> inches
from the great international public shuffling past your table gawping at you?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In the harbour were three
suspiciously picturesque fishing boats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They would be entirely inadequate to supply the industrial quantities of
seafood consumed in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place>’s
restaurants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are only about
thirteen fish left in the grossly over-exploited <st1:place w:st="on">Mediterranean
Sea</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Italy</st1:country-region></st1:place> imports 5.5 billion Euros
worth of fish each year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place>’s catch of the
day arrives in a lorry.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Finally, no visitor to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place> should miss the
sad little sculpture park guarded by six nail-varnish pink meerkats.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">One good reason for visiting <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place> is that there is
a boat from there to the Abbey of San Fruttuoso and its submerged statue, Christ
of the Abyss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am told that this is well
worth a visit but on the day we were there, it was too rough for the boat to
make the trip, which probably added to the congestion in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You can also reach the Abbey by boat from the charming and unspoilt town
of <st1:city w:st="on">Camogli</st1:city>, a few kilometres north of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place> and accessible
by train.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p><b>Camogli</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9DANUZGtKB9WJdICjDoBukxUTy2YxKyKaHExpzjQzfSlnksCZywcG93bp6DRjz5MHC2K_kFrw2xjigfTKJaJeQWESsbiH3KX-tT4r5kOhVE-UzRbO6C4R2oLyn0OXnkKFDsd0Yx-BcAbSKetnHZ9nZ-bgG33LSUQFAXGjn8sRQLDSIdOeRVdzFZr55w/s2816/IMG_1603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9DANUZGtKB9WJdICjDoBukxUTy2YxKyKaHExpzjQzfSlnksCZywcG93bp6DRjz5MHC2K_kFrw2xjigfTKJaJeQWESsbiH3KX-tT4r5kOhVE-UzRbO6C4R2oLyn0OXnkKFDsd0Yx-BcAbSKetnHZ9nZ-bgG33LSUQFAXGjn8sRQLDSIdOeRVdzFZr55w/s320/IMG_1603.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Camogli is a small town with a
small harbour. While not exactly off the tourist trail, it has a character of
its own, feels properly Italian and we spent a very good day there. There is a descent from the railway station
to this small town. If you take the steps,
you will find yourself at Camogli’s intriguing <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Maritime</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
It closes at midday on weekdays. Please
check the website for opening hours. <a href="https://museomarinaro.it/en/" target="_blank">Camogli Maritime Museum</a><span style="color: red;"> </span>The museum looks as it has
had some money spent on it. It is fascinating for those of us with an interest
in ships and the sea and there is a lot to interest the more casual
visitor. I particularly liked the
portraits of ships. Some of the sailing
ship pictures had sails made in fabric that billowed in 3D. They have a digital
archive and they showed me a 19<sup>th</sup> century Lloyds of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> insurance contract written in Italian.
I have seen plenty of ships in bottles but here they have an entire harbour
with ships in a bottle.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-1pPK0I5qMC_8rQYepGwgnYPwfyYdZf-Ba7SULJFvK68eXBOv8kltnfkjRhWvZT3sHqaoDU3jgfUuEWlX99VSvp3lp2y7QpaLUcdVBdj7T17bweEx_MPxYExFHXe8g9dl6FQWkLcRKIaT-zFXGOPKOLg3KAKzCjhTZJI7vYk-4_Yg_9MCCR_7bcnbg/s1541/20220428_104058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1156" data-original-width="1541" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-1pPK0I5qMC_8rQYepGwgnYPwfyYdZf-Ba7SULJFvK68eXBOv8kltnfkjRhWvZT3sHqaoDU3jgfUuEWlX99VSvp3lp2y7QpaLUcdVBdj7T17bweEx_MPxYExFHXe8g9dl6FQWkLcRKIaT-zFXGOPKOLg3KAKzCjhTZJI7vYk-4_Yg_9MCCR_7bcnbg/s320/20220428_104058.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It doesn’t take long to walk to the
harbour and the main street of the town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The street is lined with cafes and gelateria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The harbour itself has the shape of a crab’s
claw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The outer curved wall makes for a
nice walk and there are two whale tails made of blue metal netting that make
for a dramatic view.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In the town, there is a church that
is worth visiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was closed the day
we were there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I also noticed a bookbinding and bookshop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is closed on Thursday. That probably saved
me money as, peering through the window, I could see beautifully bound
notebooks and journals.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">If I have given the impression of a
rather closed sort of place, that is wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The town is quiet and unassuming but it is charming in a non-touristy
way.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">By the inner wall of the harbour is
the ticket office for boat trips to San Fruttuoso.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not have time to make the trip that day
though with a bit of forward planning, I could have done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Camogli is a better place to embark on your
trip to the Abbey.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was time for lunch. At the very
end of the inner wall of the harbour, we found a small café called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I tre merli, </i>the three blackbirds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sat outside enjoying bruschetti and then
it seemed necessary to have gelati and then coffee and limoncello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An hour or so passed as we watched the
comings and goings in the harbour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
perfect interlude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I tre merli</i> looked and felt like a small family run place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also offered a locanda or rooms to let.
But no ordinary rooms to let; the brochure shows that each room has a sensational
view of the harbour and there is a spa, whose delights have been translated
into English as “cuddle yourself in the SPA” and why not indeed?</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuYPdBvdExxxXYLIwCIPBqp2tz1Muscr3JeLHxV_MeF06B545ldJxskUHVDrxZxZk2va1mkn9uptYMxjda2GBvrS-PVf3OdPg6maH4nzF9TpYX9z0MJvzHlvMcaRxS0tQB7q9UHHrIpk40IZNwd8sMgvFv_xV4Hc328ubSOqqnSzhqexJ-d6dfV_KPw/s2816/IMG_1602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuYPdBvdExxxXYLIwCIPBqp2tz1Muscr3JeLHxV_MeF06B545ldJxskUHVDrxZxZk2va1mkn9uptYMxjda2GBvrS-PVf3OdPg6maH4nzF9TpYX9z0MJvzHlvMcaRxS0tQB7q9UHHrIpk40IZNwd8sMgvFv_xV4Hc328ubSOqqnSzhqexJ-d6dfV_KPw/s320/IMG_1602.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There was a surprise on their
business card that came with a very modest bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I tre
merli</i> establishments can also be found in Genova and there are four in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place>. It has quite a story that you can read n its website. <a href="http://www.itremerli.com/" target="_blank">I Tre Merli</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The gloss of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Portofino</st1:city></st1:place> or the charm of Camogli?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Camogli every time for me.</p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-8715630220932106152022-05-06T05:32:00.038-07:002022-05-06T05:45:45.778-07:00Writing My Travel Journal Again<p>After a long spell of not travelling and not travel writing it has been good to get back to it by way of a train journey to Italy and back. I still find it a marvel that one can get from London to Nice or Turin in twelve hours of sitting in a comfortable chair, reading, listening, writing or just enjoying the view, while someone else does the driving.</p><p>Writing my journal in Turin's most fashionable café (very expensive but delicious chocolate cake) or,</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgRbEx1mTJa3Y6FE620QnK_FElUu65jgy6G_nHb9ScBUuwHI8V7qSNKU4fCg8eXQsDQcweE5j2OOrSVaAAqVLwjVB15SdpZNeGSxY5RnZqUdwouJqL8RNOn9NzsFs99DT70HDOvL938dw910uPtYmqM0GuCxsq7kGy73_NkvZEwLegN7KCMYI7GjTVg/s2816/IMG_1425.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgRbEx1mTJa3Y6FE620QnK_FElUu65jgy6G_nHb9ScBUuwHI8V7qSNKU4fCg8eXQsDQcweE5j2OOrSVaAAqVLwjVB15SdpZNeGSxY5RnZqUdwouJqL8RNOn9NzsFs99DT70HDOvL938dw910uPtYmqM0GuCxsq7kGy73_NkvZEwLegN7KCMYI7GjTVg/s320/IMG_1425.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">At <a href="https://caffe.barattiemilano.it/en/welcome" target="_blank">Baratti & Milano</a> Torino</p><p>Writing my journal on a stone bench by the banks of the River Po, with graffiti for inspiration (very cheap).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguePMgGZ7s73LQJo57MHt0PaNMvIzqwnNEaG1weT5gYcguVCI2_n5JSaBZPSzMJr3gr_RKw1O-tI5Lg5gQ-XkxWh9NFB0qKhUjS-K0b5SBzP7IZ5-dAv4i0jsjxMuDFPDSgMkXxa48eXGbKwC4HO1wei23lTPQeI_oMj2d_2N7NBlYr-JVDXeLsvHVEw/s2816/IMG_1438.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2816" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguePMgGZ7s73LQJo57MHt0PaNMvIzqwnNEaG1weT5gYcguVCI2_n5JSaBZPSzMJr3gr_RKw1O-tI5Lg5gQ-XkxWh9NFB0qKhUjS-K0b5SBzP7IZ5-dAv4i0jsjxMuDFPDSgMkXxa48eXGbKwC4HO1wei23lTPQeI_oMj2d_2N7NBlYr-JVDXeLsvHVEw/s320/IMG_1438.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Adrienne Higham</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While travelling, I very much enjoyed reading <i>Italian Ways </i>by Tim Parks. Parks has lived and worked in Italy for more than 30 years. He knows and loves the country. Basing his book on the idiosyncrasies of Italian Railways, he shares many aspects of life in Italy with the reader. Ideal reading for an Italian train. I also took D H Lawrence's <i>Twilight in Italy </i>but found it very hard going and abandoned it.<i> </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's good to be back. More writing to follow.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We travelled with the excellent <a href="https://www.greatrail.com/" target="_blank">Great Rail Journeys</a></div><br /><p></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-4101197414166422662022-05-02T07:22:00.002-07:002023-05-18T09:02:15.569-07:00The Man in the Piazza at Santa Margherita Ligure<p><span> </span>Nearly everyone else in the Piazza Caprerer was milling
about or gazing at the 18<sup>th</sup> century Basilica di Santa Margherita,
whose walls glowed the palest lemon in the morning sun. One man was not, he came from one corner of
the piazza. His stride was slow but
steady and determined; nothing would come between him and the opposite corner
of the square.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The peak of his blue gabardine cap seemed to lead the way.
From the fact that it was ten thirty in the morning and from the look of him,
he was retired. His coat was a slightly darker shade of blue than his cap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under his elbow was his folded copy of the
Corriere della Sera, he would open it and read it from front page to back once
he had reached his café.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The basilica bell sounded the half hour. The man nodded his
head, a tiny movement.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The man’s face was that of a man who had worked outdoors and
his eyes were fixed ahead, towards his destination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From his lower lip, kept there by years of
practice, hung his half-smoked morning cigar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was a man content with living his life in the unchanging Italian way.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I was travelling with the excellent <a href="https://www.greatrail.com/" target="_blank">Great Rail</a></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0Italy41.87194 12.56738-20.679911345862649 -128.05762 90 153.19238tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-22023401086695814602022-03-25T13:32:00.005-07:002022-06-10T01:54:44.281-07:00A Coffee Pilgrimage to Room 43a of the British Museum<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-jKwyK_QwUE0UrxQ5SUkO0DkN6zNGQT2F_hd381Fpt0SDZMAn_zyN4n2ZdmVbjoUDm9o-10334ZmWUurq0h7f0U6C2KqbMEFaWOkUdfWfv4QdLPgxXG5BUngpC8OxnfqzFBIp4oIPg6SXTMSwR-3sQNp2bmybnsCwkjB8g2eX4dKRvy4DoluZP-Apg/s4624/Coffee%20Pot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-jKwyK_QwUE0UrxQ5SUkO0DkN6zNGQT2F_hd381Fpt0SDZMAn_zyN4n2ZdmVbjoUDm9o-10334ZmWUurq0h7f0U6C2KqbMEFaWOkUdfWfv4QdLPgxXG5BUngpC8OxnfqzFBIp4oIPg6SXTMSwR-3sQNp2bmybnsCwkjB8g2eX4dKRvy4DoluZP-Apg/s320/Coffee%20Pot.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Love is like the coffee of the Bedouin, bitter yet beautiful. - </i>Arab saying</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> W</o:p>e think we like coffee, that we have a coffee culture —
really? A cappuccino in a plasticized
paper cup or any later than breakfast time is an abomination. Even worse is the “Latte”, a child’s drink of
warm milk with a memory of coffee. It is
a sort of homeopathic version of coffee.
What we want is the strong, aromatic coffee of Islam.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Come with me on a pilgrimage to the Levant and <st1:place w:st="on">Arabia</st1:place>, where Sufis, Bedouin and Ottomans have perfected
and celebrated the art of coffee since the 1300s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Travel is still a bit tricky but we can do
all this in Room 43a of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">British</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place> where a free exhibition “Life in a Cup. Coffee Culture in the Islamic world” is on until 18
September 2022.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The exhibition is small
but intense, rather as coffee should be. <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/" target="_blank">British Museum</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sufis in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Yemen</st1:country-region></st1:place>
in the late 1300s discovered coffee’s properties. Coffee warded off sleep and
enhanced their mystical experience. Coffee reached <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:city></st1:place>
by the early 1500s. There, the
preparation and consumption of coffee became an art form. The exhibition introduces us to the Sultan’s
coffee maker, not a Nespresso machine but an elegant person in a rose-pink silk
robe and turban. The Cavehdgi Bachi
presents a tray of coffee covered with an embroidered coffee-cosy. Levantine coffee drinkers dismiss a coffee
with no foam as of poor quality and look down on the skills of the coffee
maker. I doubt if the Cavehdgi Bachi
ever took the risk of presenting the Sultan with a poorly foamed coffee.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkDBWwDJRf-7LHF8dKRAgovyqprsrywqlbYpljGs0xwKtwJ_RoEd2FiZ7ZKAJAiH-pUC3CidR1HVPrWvh1r_boXP17iv9emaDptt4Y9NrpJYB5yBN1ZkFRadVvAC7TVx1cUj8mUn4weug0L1zLQvIiKVpNfoHPyV1vtRmD0KI3PDgweoBdBAbeO6xaw/s2777/coffee%20maker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2777" data-original-width="1702" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkDBWwDJRf-7LHF8dKRAgovyqprsrywqlbYpljGs0xwKtwJ_RoEd2FiZ7ZKAJAiH-pUC3CidR1HVPrWvh1r_boXP17iv9emaDptt4Y9NrpJYB5yBN1ZkFRadVvAC7TVx1cUj8mUn4weug0L1zLQvIiKVpNfoHPyV1vtRmD0KI3PDgweoBdBAbeO6xaw/s320/coffee%20maker.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the 1600s, people from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Morocco</st1:country-region>
to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>
were drinking coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the courts and
mansions of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:city></st1:place>,
drinking coffee was a refined activity as we can see from the lustre porcelain
cups they used.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The exquisite patterns
would have emerged to delight the eye as people sipped their coffee. Some of
the porcelain was imported from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Japan</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region> along the <st1:place w:st="on">Silk Road</st1:place> trading routes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In rural <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Yemen</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
they used more humble earthenware cups that have their own beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can tell they were cherished from the
lovingly woven baskets they used to carry them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqFU8NHMtGKndwIcHs3TyVjZ9SJIEDqDfxDt9IxGz1z-kmp7YzJdNw6V3ygOlfsfFY-cn6uD9QOH_JPTA3dqUyXcFp7ZZF4RgF-iTqG0aLRS9LOoGbJT_HWGA8mkIE96i9xxiuEg1PMVhaHeQ_I1UM_YC11YngW59vSbVPSzg3fBr-6xvsP7h2JKXgA/s4100/Lustre%20Cups.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4100" data-original-width="3076" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqFU8NHMtGKndwIcHs3TyVjZ9SJIEDqDfxDt9IxGz1z-kmp7YzJdNw6V3ygOlfsfFY-cn6uD9QOH_JPTA3dqUyXcFp7ZZF4RgF-iTqG0aLRS9LOoGbJT_HWGA8mkIE96i9xxiuEg1PMVhaHeQ_I1UM_YC11YngW59vSbVPSzg3fBr-6xvsP7h2JKXgA/s320/Lustre%20Cups.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcU8Djk4ED07M8bgyPjWaQc86_HYKgdCgrc80G0mCBdVHIYbO8Te2iWjRwfdJLTJLkFe4fjK0H4YDNROqOcEbJil0xZrOV5KAqGju1sr_1sAdFfGTGcbn897-Hw8H-eh9n6HuGtYC_-LiZYZtzH0qo3gfDkYiqS60fIKAkh7LvKkQJ219lt4gvbDPv2g/s3899/Yemeni%20Cups.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3899" data-original-width="2925" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcU8Djk4ED07M8bgyPjWaQc86_HYKgdCgrc80G0mCBdVHIYbO8Te2iWjRwfdJLTJLkFe4fjK0H4YDNROqOcEbJil0xZrOV5KAqGju1sr_1sAdFfGTGcbn897-Hw8H-eh9n6HuGtYC_-LiZYZtzH0qo3gfDkYiqS60fIKAkh7LvKkQJ219lt4gvbDPv2g/s320/Yemeni%20Cups.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sir David Wilkie, who travelled in <st1:city w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:city>,
<st1:city w:st="on">Izmir</st1:city>, <st1:city w:st="on">Jerusalem</st1:city>
and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Alexandria</st1:city></st1:place>
in the 1840s, was a keen observer of the coffee culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came to realise that what he
thought was time wasting (he must have been amazed at how long the five or six
sips in a Turkish coffee cup can be made to last) was time spent
building social relationships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXD79CF1pesPieDVk87DTsr9Ikm7bbsfsz60LJCWCbXc1EUbzYTLi5LpYqBcNor_8tPAgODXvOfl6Vy90XFi-0u5TUTB9dsjskF5oQ980HwerqYRXWyGUDAmhWKCZdoIsZ1DT9vFKeZ6wC1_rt9U6WN3mZbUNmtEbuhBjfE_CwJC6okTO_OBcAbLl4Q/s3681/Two%20gentlemen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3681" data-original-width="2761" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXD79CF1pesPieDVk87DTsr9Ikm7bbsfsz60LJCWCbXc1EUbzYTLi5LpYqBcNor_8tPAgODXvOfl6Vy90XFi-0u5TUTB9dsjskF5oQ980HwerqYRXWyGUDAmhWKCZdoIsZ1DT9vFKeZ6wC1_rt9U6WN3mZbUNmtEbuhBjfE_CwJC6okTO_OBcAbLl4Q/s320/Two%20gentlemen.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Postcards
in the exhibition show that women enjoyed coffee too but I have the impression
that men and women did not drink coffee together. Some years ago, I was
travelling in the <st1:place w:st="on">Sahara</st1:place> with my wife,
Adrienne. We went into a small coffee shop in the oasis town of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Siwa</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sensed a tension as soon as I ordered. I
had not noticed that only men were present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The presence of a woman unsettled them though Arab hospitality
prevailed. There were no such worries when we went to the <span style="color: black;">Al Nofara coffee shop in the al-Hamidiyeh Souk in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Damascus</st1:city></st1:place> to listen to Abu
Sadi tell his stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In modern <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Damascus</st1:city></st1:place>, the sexes, the
young and the old mixed happily. I have written about that experience in
another post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <a href="http://www.theancienttraveller.com/search?updated-max=2019-02-04T03:50:00-08:00&max-results=7&start=28&by-date=false" target="_blank">The Story Teller of Damascus</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Coffee is a sensory pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Egyptians and Syrians say that tobacco
without coffee is like a Sultan without his fur coat. All fur coat and no
baccy?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Coffee reached <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place> in 1652 with the celebrated Pasqua Ros</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Gentium Basic";">é</span><span style="color: black;">e, who founded the Capital’s first coffee shop. Its successors would go
on to be the seedbeds of the Enlightenment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>People like coffee shops and enjoy conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even as early as 16<sup>th</sup> Century the
authorities in <st1:city w:st="on">Mecca</st1:city>, followed by <st1:city w:st="on">Cairo</st1:city> and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Damascus</st1:city></st1:place>,
tried to ban coffee shops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They failed
of course; the people and commerce prevailed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In <st1:city w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:city>, by the late 1800s, coffee
shops became places where families could enjoy shadow puppets performances and,
as I had done in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Damascus</st1:city></st1:place>,
story telling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">The European powers took hold of
coffee, set up plantations in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region>,
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Kenya</st1:country-region></st1:place>
and elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coffee became a global
commodity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:country-region w:st="on">Italy</st1:country-region>
and, from there, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>
developed their own methods of brewing and consuming coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The new coffee culture spread back to its
heartland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are 47 Starbucks
outlets in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They do serve Turkish coffee but you will do
very much better in any street café, where you will enjoy not just the coffee but
also the experience of an ancient tradition.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Within five minutes of leaving the
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">British</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>, I found a Turkish café and
enjoyed a proper coffee before setting off for the famous Algerian Coffee Stores in <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Old Compton Street</st1:address></st1:street>. <a href="https://algeriancoffeestores.com/" target="_blank">Algerian Coffee Store</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Enjoy this quiet exhibition at the British Museum.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-50968630619143972932022-03-16T10:10:00.000-07:002022-03-16T10:10:08.167-07:00 To Bath for my Handwriting<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiKIlbI7ju-6Kimq6m7ytj_ZSt7L5as-ycF1-ZQsh6XLLqgeAXv4XYCCweO2Rqq6ekeeRQIg1W86khH63ubyqm-MU6-0nJJ_13OBS8_Q1OXvzTVT3dEBmIl4wHvumpYVDrraMFc4iJpM_f3QUDOCjIc04zI-99PVzOmfIsJJSkrrS1Oz0_qkPFHPWmhQ=s1920" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiKIlbI7ju-6Kimq6m7ytj_ZSt7L5as-ycF1-ZQsh6XLLqgeAXv4XYCCweO2Rqq6ekeeRQIg1W86khH63ubyqm-MU6-0nJJ_13OBS8_Q1OXvzTVT3dEBmIl4wHvumpYVDrraMFc4iJpM_f3QUDOCjIc04zI-99PVzOmfIsJJSkrrS1Oz0_qkPFHPWmhQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>I like to write my travel journal by hand in a paper notebook with a fountain pen. Quite simply it is a more sensory and thoughtful process. A problem has been creeping up on me. My handwriting has grown worse over time and now, even I cannot read what I have written.</p><p>And so it was that Adrienne and I set off for a few days in Bath so that I could learn to write. I spent two and a half hours on a Saturday morning learning calligraphy from a master of the art, Athena Cauley-Yu, in her blissful stationery shop and print works on Walcot Street — “Meticulous Ink”. With just a few minutes explanation she got six of us writing our ABC. We worked through the alphabet from A to Z. This was learning by doing, the best sort of learning. It was hard at my age to learn new motor skills. During Lockdown, I had tried Arab calligraphy by way of a British Library online workshop. Now that is hard and I was really bad at it.</p><p>Under Athena’s expert instruction, I could see improvement. I can just remember some impressions from first learning to write as a child and these came flooding back.</p><p>The process was slow, deliberate and meditative. A well-formed letter was a reward and the iron gall black ink provided oxidised on the paper to a rich charcoal.</p><p>I found some letters particularly difficult. If I am to write in Copperplate, I shall have to avoid words with the letters M and K, which still defeat me. When we got to the letter O, I announced that my o’s looked more like a row of penguins. The class agreed with me, which was less than kind.</p><p>Athena is a self-confessed stationery geek; so am I. Her shop is a temptation and I stocked up.</p><p><a href="https://meticulousink.com/" target="_blank">Meticulous Ink</a><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUDetF5Zgeg" target="_blank">Athena introduces her shop</a><br /></p><p>Walcot Street and London Road are promoted as Bath’s Artisan and Artists quarter. This is a bit of an over-statement. For knitters there is “The Yarn Story” an excellent shop for knitters but I fear other artisan business may not have survived Covid and lockdown. I did, however enjoy a very good espresso at Taylor’s Bagels and Coffee close to Meticulous Ink.</p><p>We were in Bath for a few days and we have visited before so I have nothing to say about the must-see attractions for the first time visitor. I did revisit Bath Abbey to pay my respects to King Edgar whose coronation as the first King of England in 973 is commemorated in stained glass. Parts of the rite were still in use in 1953 at the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. The Abbey floor is made up of gravestones laid flat. I learnt that they are called ledgerstones. I do like learning a new word.</p><p>The Museum of East Asian Art was new to us and well worth going to see. The exquisite collection, mostly of ceramics and porcelain, is based on the private collection of Brian McElney who combined a career as a lawyer in Hong Kong with scouring the markets and antique shops of Hong King to find treasure. Oriental porcelain has been appreciated in Europe since the Middle Ages when the Silk Road trade brought it west. Glass from Venice travelled east in exchange but did not catch on in the countries of the masters of ceramics.</p><p><a href="https://meaa.org.uk/">Museum of East Asian Art</a><br /></p><p>Bath has two rather wonderful bookshops, to which I made a pilgrimage. Topping & Co has moved since I was last in Bath. It is now splendidly housed in the former Friends Meeting House in York Street, close to the Abbey. I went up the grand steps, through a vast portico into a space with bookshelves from floor to ceiling.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And the ceilings were high. Ladders on bookshelves are always a good sign. The staff were friendly and efficient in this temple to books.</p><p>Mr B’s Emporium in John Street is different. It is rabbit warren of spaces for booklovers. Its spaces have names. The Imaginarium is for writers; the Bibliotherapy room is for travellers. The space for children “The Wood between the Words” is enchanting. Do not miss Mr B’s.</p><p>Finally a handful of recommendations from our visit. We stayed at the Apex City Centre Bath. It was fine but they required us to book a time for breakfast in advance, which I found irritating. We breakfasted very well indeed at The Boston Tea Party on Kingsmead Square. </p><p>We dined very well at Martini Restaurant in George Street. It is a traditional Italian Restaurant run by Italians and it had a family-run feel to it.</p><p>On our second evening, we pushed the boat out and dined magnificently at Portofino Oyster Bar and Fish restaurant on the High Street.</p><p>It felt good to be travelling together again.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5457308912025540707.post-90488791901266984052021-12-24T05:23:00.000-08:002021-12-24T05:23:17.780-08:00The Art of Persuasion<p><i>I realise it is a year since my last post. A dismal year without travelling. Here is a very old piece that may bring back some memories of your own. Happy Christmas and here's hoping for a very much better 2022.</i></p><p><b>You are too canny to be caught by the carpet salesman. But are you?</b></p><p>Experienced traveller? You have met the carpet sellers, the scent salesmen. “Just come and look in my shop, no need to buy.” You are too experienced to fall for it. But it’s part of the holiday, just sip the tea, chat, look at the merchandise. You won’t buy.</p><p>Trouble is they are really good at what they do. So what happens between your knowing entry into the shop and the excess baggage charge? It’s the ancient art of persuasion. He asks you questions. He wants to know how long you have been in his country — code for “How much have you spent already?” He watches and listens. He is working out how much you will spend, even if you still think it is nothing. </p><p>He gives you tea. Up until now he has hardly drawn your attention to the merchandise but he has been watching to see where your eye has lingered. </p><p>The offer of tea is important. He has given you something. You want to give him something in return, and you surely will.</p><p>Now he shows you his first product. It will be nearly the most expensive. There is no indecorous mention of the price. He just asks you to admire the quality. You show appreciation? You are a person of taste. He will show you something even better.</p><p>He senses the fear as you estimate this new thing is too expensive. He works slowly down to the price range that will suit the cheapskate you have revealed yourself to be. The smile and patter never falter.</p><p>You take an interest in something; fatal. He will not let you take your hand off the object. It is out of its wrapper, you are holding it. It is yours.</p><p>“How much?” Music to his ears. It was you that brought up the subject of money. He is above such things but if needs must …</p><p>You haggle but end up paying almost exactly the price he had always wanted. “You will love it,” he says, “in your elegant home”. He is reinforcing your decision to buy. He offers more tea. </p><p>You have been the willing victim of the art of persuasion.</p><div><br /></div>David Highamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02204960245344718885noreply@blogger.com0