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Mixed Fortunes in Brussels. ( 1972 – 2026.)

May 9, 2026

I’ve been to Brussels, the capital of Belgium 3 times and nearly went there on another occasion. It’s been a city of mixed fortunes for me. Good things and not so good things have happened there.

I first attempted to go way back in 1972, newly married and a newly qualified teacher. It was to be a grand tour of the Low Countries by rail, starting in Bruges and finishing up in Amsterdam. In those days we went across the Channel by boat as there was no tunnel. Very sadly, just before we set off, my new father-in-law unexpectedly died. Our departure was thus greatly delayed. Instead of wandering around the Belgian capital, I found myself at a sombre funeral in Kent. The holiday, although much needed by my grieving wife, was greatly truncated and Brussels was missed out.

Incredibly I didn’t get around to trying again until 2012 when I went with my travel buddy, Eric. We had met on a group tour of Romania and went on several holidays together, mostly in northern Europe. Belgium fitted the bill exactly. On this jaunt, we had a few days in Brussels followed by a few in Bruges, with a visit to Ghent thrown in for good measure. In Brussels we stayed in the gritty, working class suburb of Anderlecht, famous for its football team, the most successful in Belgium. We must have booked there because it was cheap. It certainly felt authentic. We had a room up a steep staircase above a typical continental bar and brasserie. It made us feel as though we were in the real Belgium rather than in an anonymous, chain hotel. Our room overlooked a crossroads, very busy during the day but eerily quiet at night. Every morning we drank our coffees and witnessed the rush hour traffic build up to a crescendo and then gradually die down again.

The location wasn’t exactly convenient. We had a half hour hoof to the nearest Metro station, where we got the train into the centre. Of course, we wanted to see the Grand Place which is often described as one of the most beautiful squares in the world. It certainly impressed. A huge, cobbled space in the heart of the city, it showcases a stunning panorama of Gothic and Baroque architecture from the 15th to the 19th centuries. A medieval town hall is faced on 3 sides by ornate guild houses all built to show how rich and successful their tradesmen sponsors were. These highly ornate old buildings are decorated with statues, arches, classical columns, pinnacles, fancy gables, and most eye-catching of all — glittering gold.

It should have been a memorable moment when Eric and I walked into the famous square, but our attention was instead caught by a large stage and giant speakers set up for a pop concert that evening. So we had to try to imagine what it must look like when not invaded by all this distracting, modern paraphernalia.

Despite this slight disappointment we had a good time in Brussels. We visited the art gallery in the Upper Town to see paintings by the so-called Flemish Primitives ie Brueghel the Elder, Bosch and Memling, as well as masterworks by the French artist Jacques-Louis David. I remember being stopped in my tracks by David’s world famous “Death of Marat” ( 1793), which shows the French revolutionary bleeding to death in his bath after being stabbed by Charlotte Corday. I’d seen it so many times in history textbooks that I couldn’t believe I was actually standing in front of the real thing. The gruesome scene shows Marat slumped in his bath-tub holding a letter from his assassin in his left hand and a writing quill in his lifeless right hand. He had used his bathroom as his office because of a serious skin condition.

In that 2012 visit we visited the spectacular, glass-roofed shopping arcade Galeries Royale St Hubert ( 1846), one of the largest and earliest in Europe at the time. We climbed to the Upper Town to see the Royal Palace and the formal park opposite. Then we descended in a glass-walled lift to the Marolles, the now gentrified but still atmospheric working class area of cobbled squares, open air markets, and little shops and bars. We stopped at an outside cafe where Eric wound up the waitress by asking if they had any beer? ( Belgium has more brewers per head of the population than any other country in the world.)

We passed by the Mannekin-PIs, the famous statue of a small, urinating boy, but hardly gave it a second glance as it was so underwhelming, despite it being on many a tourist’s list. The undoubted highlight of our stay was a tour of the city’s Art Nouveau architecture. Brussels was the birthplace of Art Nouveau which flourished in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Two architects in particular, Victor Horta and Paul Hankar started creating organic forms that broke with tradition. In their buildings, there was no such thing as a straight line or right angle. Ironically they were reacting to the uniform, mass-production of the industrial age, but at the same time were using products of that very industrialisation, such as wrought iron and glass.

We did the tour with an excellent organisation called ARAU. ( Atelier de Recherche et d’Action Urbaines.) It’s a heritage-action group set up to help protect Brussels’ historical architecture, especially Art Nouveau and Art Deco. The tour was fascinating. We visited the only surviving Horta designed department store ( 1906), the Grand Magasin Wauquez, famous for its stained glass, huge windows letting in floods of light and ornamental iron grills, girders and balustrades. It’s now the Belgian Comic Strip Centre. Belgium is second only to the United States in the production of cartoons, the most famous being Tintin and the Smurfs. We took a bus south of the centre to the Ixelles and St Gilles neighbourhoods. Here we visited an art nouveau school and a sumptuous private house paid for by the immense riches earned in the colonial era when Belgium ruled and exploited the Congo in central Africa. Leaving the dubious morality of empire aside, we were privileged to gain access to such a mansion. We were told that no photography was allowed. A female caretaker arrived to unlock the door and followed us from room to room with an eagle eye as the guide gave his expert explanations. Suddenly though, he stopped and abruptly ordered 2 young Asian girls to get out immediately and wait outside. The caretaker had spotted them surreptitiously taking photos. We were just then at the beginning of the Instagram age when some feel compelled to snap absolutely everything. The guide explained that future groups might no longer gain access to this wonderful house if the transgression was reported back to the owner. Despite this unfortunate incident, it was an interesting and enlightening tour and we learnt a lot.

My next visit to Brussels came in 2022 with another travel buddy and close friend, Ian. We stayed in Mechelen, a small city halfway between Antwerp and the capital. We took the half hour train journey for what we planned was the first of 2 visits to Brussels. Once again I was bowled over by the splendid St Hubert shopping arcade. We were particularly impressed by a couple of chocolate shops lit up by bright lights shaded by beautiful Tiffany-style glass. We went on to the Grand Place which greatly impressed Ian, but again I was slightly disappointed because this time it was hosting, not a pop concert but a beer festival! Apparently 100 beers were on tap. However, the marquees and security fences rather detracted from the architectural splendour all around.

Following a guide book trail we made our way via atmospheric narrow streets to Place St Catherine where an open air market was in progress and then out to a lovely church called Eglise St Jean Baptitse. It was all very interesting and we enjoying our meander. Unfortunately one of the downs of my visits to Brussels now took place. I was robbed of about 200 euros. The guy did it by asking me for change, ostensibly for parking. Wanting to be helpful to a fellow tourist ( he said he was German) I naively took out my wallet. He distracted me by trying to give me some sort of shopping token which he kept pushing towards me. I declined as I didn’t understand what he was saying. It was only later in the day that I realised he had relieved me of almost all my cash. There was just one 10 euro note left to hide the fact that everything else had been swiped! It left a sour taste in our mouths and we decided not to visit Brussels for a second day because of this bad experience.

We did however get to see the wonderful Horta House before I realised I had been robbed. This is the art nouveau home and studio of the turn of the century ( 19th to 20th) architect Victor Horta. It’s now called the Musee Horta. We found our way to the St Gilles district on the metro. Frustratingly they wouldn’t let us in until we had booked online even though we were there in the flesh and there was space inside. It was only a year after covid and everyone was very nervous about overcrowding. Thus online booking and timed tickets were now the order of the day. We had to stand in the street, get on the booking site on our phones, pay for our tickets, contact our bank for a verification code and finally get the magical QR code that we needed to get in. Ironically, the lad on the door couldn’t get his scanner to beep when it pointed to the code on my screen. In the end he let us in anyway after all that fuss. He gave us tickets from a basket which we showed to another man who promptly put it back into the same basket!

Musee Horta is wonderful inside. Horta himself lived there until his death in 1919. It is a light-filled, sensuous creation, full of ornate, curving wrought iron and stained glass alongside beautiful wooden furniture and panelling. The central feature is a delicate staircase spiralling up the whole height of the house and bathed in natural light from a large skylight above. It is decorated with painted motifs and is surrounded by mirrors which increase the sense of space and light. It would be impossible to describe every detail. Suffice to say that it is like going through the Looking Glass ( or the back of the Wardrobe) and entering a magical alternative world. I was entranced but when I went to buy some postcards it was then I realised that I had been robbed. Talk about going from one emotional extreme to another! It seemed to sum up my mixed fortunes in Brussels.

After all that it was with some trepidation that I went back to Brussels again this year with my wife Chris. Once more I stayed in Mechelen like I did with Ian, and we made the easy train journey to the capital. This is when I get to repeat some of the things I said earlier — sorry! Chris had never been to Brussels so I had to show her the impressive shopping arcade : the Galeries Royale St Hubert. By a small miracle we got to see it when it was virtually empty. We arrived there at 8-30am and had it to ourselves. I read that shopping arcades went out of fashion with the rise of department stores. It’s sad and somewhat ironic that department stores are now struggling and having to give way to internet shopping. We have 2 empty ones in Middlesbrough near where I live. Anyway we visited this historic arcade in Brussels which is surviving thanks to tourism. As on previous visits we next went on to the Grand Place. We had come so early because we were booked on a walking tour starting there at 10am. Just for once — a stroke of luck — the grand square was empty. Previous visits had coincided with a music concert and a beer festival. This time however, we could see the square in all its glory. It started to rain a bit, but you cannot have everything. Unfortunately we were due to find our guide by looking for a white umbrella but now the whole square was awash with them.

We had booked ourselves on to a 3 hour Art Nouveau walking tour. The organisation I had previously gone on a similar tour with was not operating in April which was a shame. The tour was quite expensive — £51 each– but it said it would cover the highlights of art nouveau in Brussels and would finish at the Musee Horta which I already knew was/is wonderful. We met the group and the guide, Maria, without any trouble. The rain had stopped and most of the umbrellas had gone down. Marie started her introduction, talking through a microphone attached to her head. Unfortunately the mike kept slipping off, I had trouble deciphering Maria’s accent and there was a lot of background noise as the Grand Place filled up with more and more tourists. It was a very mixed start.

We moved off up the hill called the Mont des Arts to the Upper Town. I was still only picking up about 25% of what the guide was saying. I wasn’t the only one having trouble as 3 people left the tour after about 10 minutes. Slowly though, I got used to Maria’s voice and started to understand more. We stood outside a former art nouveau department store at the top of the hill. It is now a musical instrument museum. We heard its history and admired its twirling, unusual ironwork. We now jumped on a tram –an exciting moment for me– tapping in with our credit cards. We travelled south into the Ixelles and St Gilles areas and got off after 5 stops. Despite traffic it was much quieter here because of the lack of tourists. I started to hear more of what Maria was saying. It was really interesting stuff, especially as she was giving her personal interpretations alongside the standard speel. However I now had to absorb another disappointment, as the guide informed us that we weren’t going to go inside any of the buildings. We would be standing outside, looking at the fancy doors and windows of the exterior and Maria would show us photos of the wonders inside. I thought this wasn’t good enough considering the price we had paid — over £100 between us. Still, we had to go with it and like I said, a lot of what she told us was very interesting. Our group consisted of Dutch, Americans and us Brits. 3 more people left near the end because Maria’s enthusiasm led her to over-run. But the majority stayed the course.

Maria’s enthusiasm for the subject of Art Nouveau was infectious. She had really got into it during the covid lockdowns. She lived in the St Gilles area so incorporated many of the buildings into her lockdown exercise walks. She gave too much information, in my opinion, but we learnt quite a lot. Art Nouveau was basically an architectural style for the wealthy. It was a way of showing off to the neighbours about their success. If you were super rich in the 1890s, you could hire an eminent architect to design a house to suit your personal taste. Horta and Hankar were the main men to go to in Brussels, the equivalent of Gaudi in Barcelona. Art Nouveau was a reaction to industrialisation and mass production. It was influenced by William Morris and the Arts and Crafts movement in Britain. Its buildings have many allusions to the natural world. The movement was also political, being a Socialist reaction to Catholicism and the traditionalists. The new, natural art style was a statement of identity. Sometimes this style is called “Total Art”. That’s because the architect, craftsmen and artists had total control over every aspect of the building, from door handles to taps, from lights to furniture. The same approach was being followed by Charles Rennie McIntosh and his wife Margaret McDonald in Scotland at a similar time. Art Nouveau buildings have lots of natural light, originally inspired by the Crystal Palace in London. Coloured glass was imported from the Tiffany works in America. Sometimes the architect’s quest for total control got a bit carried away however. One architect even went so far as designing all his wife’s dresses! It wasn’t a movement for feminists.

Maria explained that Art Nouveau was also about escapism. It was about going into an inner world. Of course, this art movement was taking off at the same time as Sigmund Freud’s theories about the workings of the mind were surfacing in Vienna. The tour finally finished outside the Musee Horta on rue Americaine in St Gilles. Here we had to absorb a triple blow. We had assumed that we would finish with a tour of the house but this wasn’t the case. We weren’t allowed in. What’s more, we couldn’t even see the outside of this Horta masterpiece as it was covered in scaffolding and protective sheeting. Thirdly, we found that we couldn’t book to see it later that afternoon as it was fully booked all day and every day for the foreseeable future. This is yet another result of mass tourism. Why didn’t they all just stay at home? And so the tour, interesting as it was, ended in anti-climax. To cap it all, it had started to rain again — heavier than before.

The tour had ended but we realised that we didn’t know where we were or how to get back to the city centre. We had just followed the guide out here and she had now disappeared before we had had the chance to ask her for directions. To make matters worse, the rain was getting heavier and we both needed the loo, especially Chris. She had been wanting to go since the beginning of the 3.5 hour tour. Thus we were in a bit of a pickle to put it mildly. So, first things first — we needed a toilet. I looked down the street and on a corner about 200 metres away was a bar announced by its outside tables and chairs. We headed straight for it. It was empty inside and luckily the bar girl understood English. I quickly ordered coffees and ascertained where the facilities were. It was a bit like the relief of Mafeking, for those of you who know your Boer war. We sipped our coffees, watched the rain drops running down the window and listened to French pop music. We couldn’t have got much further from a cosy, guided tour if we had tried. After about 15 to 20 minutes the rain eased. But we still had the problem of finding out where we were and figuring out how to get back to the centre. It was like a real life version of an escape room. I vaguely remembered that in my previous visit to this area, I had caught a metro. By studying my guide book map and looking at google maps, I finally worked out where we were and how to get to the station. Trams were plentiful but no good as we didn’t know where they were going and we might end up in an even bigger mess if we caught one going in the wrong direction. Anyway, after a 15 minute trek we miraculously made it to Horta station. We now had to figure out which line to go on and how to get tickets from the machine. As is usual in this impersonal day and age, there was no person to ask for help. Our first attempt to make sense of the ticket machine ended up with us getting a receipt but no tickets. We must have pressed the wrong button at some point. After carefully observing other passengers we tried again and this time succeeded. Our tickets got us through the barriers and we caught the pink line north for 4 stops. It was crowded but 2 young people kindly got up for us to sit down. We must be looking old!

Back in the centre we explored the area around the old Bourse or Stock Exchange building . It looks like an ancient Greek temple. The streets were now heaving with tourists. We stumbled across the St Hubert shopping arcade again and this time it was absolutely crammed with people. It was quite shocking to behold — more like a massive rugby scrum than a sedate shopping centre. We ended up eating in a small bar, with more loud pop music and 3 or 4 men propped up on high stools drinking their pints. The food was OK and we enjoyed the 80s music. At least it was an authentic Brussels experience instead of a tourist trap. Finally we revisited the Mont des Arts which has lovely formal gardens and sweeping views from the top. We visited the extensive shop of the Musee des Beaux Arts. Chris likes shops and we both like art so we were in our element. Finally we walked through the Upper Town to see the Gothic: Sablon church and a beautiful little park opposite it with lovely flowers and statues set into hedges.

I had survived another visit to Brussels. The day had had its highs and lows but overall had been very enjoyable. Just like all my other visits to the city, this one had been a day of mixed fortunes but we had navigated it successfully and had a great adventure. Now all I have to do is to go back to Brussels yet again to see the interiors of some of those art nouveau mansions we couldn’t get into on this occasion. Next time we will book well ahead and certainly go out of season to beat the worst of the crowds. Brussels 2027, here we come.
Ducking and Diving in Bruges.

May 4, 2026

We were recently in Belgium, so inevitably we visited Bruges. You have to don’t you? Missing out Bruges in Belgium would be like omitting London when visiting England or not bothering with Paris while getting to know France. Bruges dominates Belgian tourism with about 8.3million visitors per year. That’s a lot to cope with for a small city of only about 120,000. I mentioned our Belgium trip to various friends and they all asked “Are you going to Bruges?” It’s as if no other places in Belgium exist.

Why is Bruges so popular? Well, it’s simply one of the most perfectly preserved medieval cities in Europe. Often dubbed “The Venice of the North”, it combines picture-postcard facades, scenic bridges and a delicate web of glistening canals.

Its golden age was back in the middle ages between the 13th and 15th centuries when, along with Ghent, it dominated the textile industry, turning high quality English wool into superior clothing that was exported all over the known world. It was a leading member of the Hanseatic league, a huge, pan-European trading organisation centred on the North and Baltic Seas, which , in effect, was a forerunner of today’s European Union. Goods from all over the world were traded there. The city and its merchants became immensely wealthy and many fine buildings were erected which reflected that.

However, the good times did not last. By the late 1400s, its river, the Zwin was silting up, severing Bruges’ vital link with the sea. The city slowly slipped into decline as other ports such as Antwerp were favoured by the powers that be. For centuries Bruges wallowed in obscurity. World events passed it by as if it was asleep. It didn’t get swept up in the Industrial Revolution. In the 20th century it remained miraculously untouched by both World Wars although the Germans invaded their tiny neighbour on both occasions. Taking over a medieval back-water was not on their list of priorities. It was as if the once proud city had fallen between the cracks. Eventually though, it reinvented itself as a tourist destination, packaging and selling its glorious past to modern day travellers.

The turning point came in 1892 with the publication of a French novella: “Bruges-la-Morte” ( Bruges-the Dead City). Its author was George Rodenbach. The book ignited curiosity amongst French readers in this forgotten time-warp on their doorstep. They started visiting to catch a glimpse of a forgotten age.

When I first travelled to Bruges in the early 70s, it was popular but still relatively comfortable to visit. Tourist numbers were manageable and no area seemed over-crowded. It was the same in the early 90s when I revisited on a trip with my daughter. However, by the time I went again with a friend at the end of the noughties, I was shocked to see the huge crowds swarming around the main squares and most picturesque spots along the canals. What had happened in the meantime? Well, we had now entered the age of mass tourism. Budget airlines had made long distance travel cheaper and easier. People from eastern Europe, China, Japan and the Far east were now on the move. Travel was no longer the privilege of the wealthy West. Films such as the comedy thriller “In Bruges” had helped to put the photogenic city on the map. Since then, in two subsequent visits in the 2020s I have witnessed Bruges increasingly become a major tourist honey-pot. That is thanks to social media, and You-Tube video makers ( everyone thinks he/she is Stephen Spielberg these days) Then there are Tik Tok influencers and increasing numbers of people pursuing their Instagram bucket lists.

This recent visit with my wife Chris was my 5th time in the once sleeping city. Now it has fully woken up to the great rewards to be had by courting the tourist dollar. The trouble is that it is starting to become a victim of its own success. Is it in danger of killing the goose that laid the golden egg? It’s a worrying thought. Despite all this though, Bruges still remains an outstanding place to visit. We just had to be prepared to duck and dive a bit to avoid most of the hordes and the worst of the commercial excesses. Prices are quite high of course but you just have to accept that and get on with it. To avoid the football- like crowds at the height of summer, it’s best to visit in spring or autumn or even in winter. When there, it’s best not to follow the sheep- like procession along the main drags but try diving down side streets or venturing into lesser known parts of town. That way one might get a quieter, more authentic experience and perhaps even cheaper prices. It’s difficult but not impossible to drag oneself away from the often artificial attractions of “tourist land.”

The local authorities are also trying to tackle the problem of over-tourism. Cruise ships docking at nearby Zeebrugge have now been reduced from 5 to 2 per day. Groups having guided walking tours are being restricted to 20 and are being told not to stop at the most obvious places for explanations and photo opportunities. The idea is to keep tourists flowing instead of being clogged up in a human log jam. They are also thinking about increasing the tourist tax and key attractions are introducing timed tickets. That may cut down on spontaneity but will ease the frustrating problem of overcrowding.

So, how did Chris and I get on? Well first of all we visited in April rather than July. We came as independent travellers rather than as part of a large tour group. We travelled by train disguised as “normal people” instead of being ferried in from an enormous cruise liner. We also ventured into areas away from the main squares and most obvious sights. Did we succeed? Well , partly yes and partly no. In the case of the most compelling sights, we just had to take a deep breath and go for it. If you cannot beat them, then join them. But we didn’t climb up the 366 winding steps of the enormous belfry on the market square, we didn’t go clip-clopping over the clattering cobbles in a horse and carriage and we didn’t queue to get on a crowded boat tour with a canned commentary. We also resisted the temptation of Choco-Story ( about chocolates) and the Frietmuseum ( about chips.) We even avoided the relatively new Harry Potter experience even though Potter fans swear that ancient Bruges is a real life recreation of Hogwarts. Finally, we missed out on any sampling of waffles although their warm, sweet scent seemed to permeate the air wherever we went in the main areas..

We travelled across country on a slow train from Mechelen in the east of Flanders to Bruges in the west. We passed through flat, agricultural countryside with lines of graceful trees and neat and tidy little towns. It was nearly 11.30am when we got to Bruges. Descending from the platform we joined the tourist throngs on the busy station concourse. The first voices we heard were English. Some people from Newcastle were remarking on what a small world it was as they had just bumped into some visitors from South Shields! After crossing a busy bypass, we soon reached the Minnewater, a pretty, willow lined pond dubbed the “Lake of Love.” Cue the first photo!

We walked on to Bruge’s Begijnhof, a former community of single, religious women and still inhabited by a handful of Benedictine nuns. As we were part of the daily tourist invasion, we didn’t see any habits floating by. The complex is an oval of pretty, white-washed houses from the 17th century, arranged round a green and surrounded by a protective wall. In the centre is a Baroque church. On the green were swathes of fading daffodils. It must have been wonderful there just a few weeks before. Notices requested “Quiet” but unfortunately that was a vain request as several tour groups were congregating there including noisy bunches of bored teenagers.

We left the Begijnhof through an elaborate, 17th century gateway , straight on to a picturesque bridge over a canal. Swans basked on its green banks and a pair of coots with their 5 fluffy chicks, fussed around in the water below us. Views from both sides of the bridge were ( are) beautiful. We ducked and dived amongst the selfie-takers and got a few decent pictures ourselves.

A medieval wonderland now beckoned us into its midst — gabled merchant houses, quaint bridges, shining waterways and impressive, stone churches lined the way. The most common buildings had attractive crow stepped gables. Inevitably many of the venerable buildings had been turned into tourist-trap shops selling souvenirs, lace and especially: chocolates. There were also numerous cafes and restaurants to tempt us in. We stopped at an English-style tea-shop. Bizarrely it was decorated with paintings of uniformed generals and admirals with dog’s heads! The food was lovely. We succumbed to cakes with our coffee and tea and they came with ice-cream, squirty cream and a small selection of delicious Belgium chocolates. Very naughty but very nice! The couple who ran the cafe also owned owned a chocolate shop across the street. ( one of many.)

We meandered on through a tangle of narrow streets lined by gabled houses, their facades pointed to the blue sky. ( we were lucky with the weather.) Above them all reared the belfry of the Market Hall, a soaring 3-tiered tower dominating all around. Like a magnet it draw the crowd, including us, inexorably towards it, until finally, we were in the square itself. It’s a huge cobbled space, lined with photogenic guild houses, now turned into pavement cafes packed with diners. Many of the gables are crowned by golden figures of people and animals. Unfortunately a flower market was just winding up. Stalls were being dismantled, crates and boxes packed away and vans and small lorries were strewn around in what usually is a pedestrianised area. It was all a bit messy and detracted a little from the majesty of this medieval showpiece. Understandably though it is a working market place and not just an attraction for tourists. We still managed to enjoy the people- watching and the delicate carillon tunes coming from the bell tower every quarter. Bruge’s carillon has 47 bells of different sizes.

Bruges has not one but two splendid squares, attached to one another by a narrow passage. The second one, the Burg is even more eye-catching than the Markt. Its buildings are studded with statues, many of them golden. The Burg is named after the fortress that was built there by the first Count of Flanders in the 9th century. It’s now long gone. We sat down to rest and do more people watching — couples courting, parents playing with their children, workers snatching their lunch, friends meeting and parting. All the time, horse drawn carriages came and went, their wheels and hooves echoing on the cobbled surface.

In a corner of the Burg is one of my favourite churches — the moody, atmospheric Basilica of the Holy Blood. It’s been there since the 12th century. It’s named after the Holy relic that found its way to Flanders in the Middle Ages. Supposedly, it’s a piece of cloth stained by drops of Christ’s blood collected at the foot of the cross by Joseph of Arimethea. It was probably acquired by Crusaders who sacked Constantinople in 1204. It is paraded through the streets of Bruges every year on Ascension Day and is greatly revered. The basilica is actually in two parts. Downstairs is a gloomy, Romanesque crypt, while up 3 flights of stairs, the main chapel is decorated with colourful wall frescoes, painted in 1898. The centre piece shows Christ on the cross surrounded by angels and looking down on a field of sheep, while below, pictures show monarchs bowing to bishops and other mock-medieval stuff. This late 19th century makeover was very controversial at the time.

To one side, a priest in robes sat on a raised platform guarding a silver phial containing the sacred relic. We were there on a seemingly normal day, but a constant queue of pilgrims shuffled reverently forward up a set of steps to view the precious cloth.

We now walked away from the centre, heading north alongside a wide canal. Every now and then, packed tour boats passed by, but otherwise the area got increasingly peaceful. The crowds had just melted away. It was as if an invisible barrier had been erected, beyond which no tourist was allowed to stray. We passed a pretty confluence of canals and veered left. We now walked along virtually empty streets towards St Annakerk. We crossed a bridge over a canal and there was the church in front of us, sitting in its own quiet square. St Anna’s is an impressive baroque church from the 17th century. We almost had it to ourselves. There was only a caretaker, silently reading his book and a couple of other visitors came and went while we were there. It has a beautiful altar flanked by sinuously twisting columns. At the back is a huge fresco which is actually the largest painting in Bruges.

The area around St Anna’s is the former medieval, working class district. It is a lesser known part of the city, and is sometimes called “Quiet Bruges.” It is a charming, authentic glimpse into the city’s past, featuring: simple, 17th century brick cottages, scenic canals, local cafes and even a windmill or two. As we wandered around we almost had the narrow streets to ourselves. It was a peaceful atmosphere as we had left the crowds behind.

We were getting tired now. We had a snack and a drink at a canal-side cafe near the Burg. Then we started to make our way back to the rail station. Unfortunately, I got a little confused in the jumble of streets, as my map frustratingly only named the main drags. Luckily a kind local man helped us, giving clear directions in perfect English. He said he had lived in London and a local there had helped him when he too had got lost, so now he was paying off his debt to the English.

We caught our train on time and were able to rest our feet on the journey back. It had been an interesting and enjoyable day of contrasts:- crowded squares and deserted streets, busy basilicas and empty churches, tour groups following their guides and ordinary people going about their everyday business. We had played it by ear to avoid the worst of the crowds. Sometimes we went with the flow, while sometimes we swam gently against it. Bruges is still a beautiful place but it has to be careful that it doesn’t sacrifice its soul on the altar of mass tourism. In our short time there we managed to glimpse both its past and its possible, overcrowded future. We had a great day though, along with thousands of others.
Belgium Holiday. ( or was it an Adventure?)

April 29, 2026

I have a friend who’s hooked on adventures in far flung countries. His trips are full-on and crammed with exciting, unpredictable experiences. He journeys way out of your average person’s comfort zone. Over a coffee he explained that he actually comes home for a holiday. For him, being at home in his familiar routines is like being on a restful holiday, a peaceful sojourn in between adrenaline-filled trips.

His differentiation between a “holiday” and an “adventure” fascinated me and got me thinking. When I go on holiday, I don’t regard it as an opportunity to rest or recharge my batteries. I have no interest in lying around on a sun lounge or a beach all day. I prefer to be stimulated by exploring new places, being surprised and potentially having experiences that I wouldn’t encounter in my everyday life. I like to expect the unexpected. For me therefore, a change is as good as a rest. So maybe I too am seeking adventure, though one of a more sedate kind.

Belgium is only a short hop across the sea from Britain but it still has the capacity to surprise and excite because much of it is so different from my British norm. It might be one of the smallest countries in Europe but it consistently punches above its weight in terms of variety and interest. So Belgium was my wife Chris and I’s latest holiday, or was it an adventure? I’ll let you decide.

We flew into Amsterdam from Newcastle, our nearest major UK airport. Then we took a fast inter-city train out of the Netherlands, south east into neighbouring Belgium. Straight away we knew we were in the “low countries” which is the literal translation of “Netherlands.” The land is flat and low lying, and divided up into squares or polders by drainage channels. From the descending aeroplane window we had already spotted vivid bands of colour in the tulip fields below. The Belgians and the Dutch used to belong to one country ruled by Spain. After gaining their independence from the hated Spanish, they eventually split up into two separate nations, partly because of religious differences. Belgium was largely Catholic while the Netherlands was predominantly Protestant.

Belgium today is a intriguing mixture of Dutch and French. It is mostly flat ( except for the Ardennes in the south) and has lots and lots of bicycles. Every railway station we went to had massive bike sheds. It’s a linguistically confusing country. Flemish, a form of Dutch is spoken in the north, while Walloon, a form of French is the language of the south. Brussels, the capital, in the middle of the country, is multi-lingual which can lead to confusion. For instance if you wanted to get a train from Brussels to Mechelen, where we stayed, you also have to look out for signs to Malines, which is the French version of its name. The names on the train information boards alternate at regular intervals. To complicate things even further, part of Belgium even speaks German!

Belgium is famous for beer and chocolate, for Audrey Hepburn and Eddie Merckx ( multiple Tour de France winner), for Rubens and Van Gogh, for Gothic architecture and Art Nouveau. It’s famous for Brussels sprouts of course which I used to hate as a child. Brussels, the capital, is often referred to as the capital of Europe as the EU has its headquarters there. The country was only officially created in 1830, and it was supposedly to protect Belgian neutrality that the British declared war on Germany in 1914.

This was my 5th visit but it was Chris’s first. Most people seem to just pass through on their way to somewhere else. It’s funny that a country so close is so often taken for granted. A Belgian inter-city express picked us up at Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. The train station is underground and the trains run through tunnels below the airport concourse. People descend to the platforms on escalators. Actually, we nearly missed our train because we forgot to put our watches forward an hour to get on to continental time. So instead of a leisurely hour and a quarter looking round the airport shops, we had a panicky 10 minute rush to platform 5 when I realized. The train came in bang on time as they nearly always do in the Low Countries. We never had to worry about Belgian or Dutch delay-repay. We sped south to Rotterdam and then on across the border towards Antwerp. As we were now in the EU’s Schengen Zone of free movement, we never noticed when we crossed from the Netherlands into Belgium. There were no passport or security checks. So far, so good we thought but then, the train suddenly slid to a halt in the middle of the countryside. Everyone was mystified. After an announcement however, explained to us by a fellow passenger, all was revealed. Someone had been smoking in a toilet and set off the smoke alarm. This in turn had automatically stopped the train. The guilty loo was actually in our coach. 3 train managers descended and made a forced entry. I hope the guilty guy had time to pull up his pants before they all burst in!

We arrived half an hour late into Antwerp but luckily our local connecting train was on the adjoining platform so we still managed to catch it. It was a double decker train, something we don’t have in the UK. ( but unlike continental countries we DO have double decker buses.) We were travelling on to Mechelen , a town of just under 90,000, halfway between Antwerp and Brussels. Half an hour later we arrived. Unlike on a package holiday there was no guide to greet us and take us to our accommodation and welcome drinks. We had to figure it all out for ourselves. Luckily I had been to Mechelen before and had a good guide book map, so I was able to navigate us to the sanctuary of our hotel after a brisk 10 minutes walk. Checking in was quick and simple as the receptionist spoke excellent English. It was a lot better than our limited French or non-existent Dutch. Our room was clean and comfortable but — shock, horror — had no kettle, tea bags or custard creams! But who cares? We were now on a foreign adventure, where difference and surprise were the order of the day.

The next morning we strolled into a medieval wonderland. Who needs Disney? Although it is historical and picturesque, Mechelen still sits under the tourist radar and is relatively quiet and undiscovered. It makes for a more relaxing base than the busy capital of Brussels or the mass tourist mecca of Bruges. Prices are more reasonable too. The town centre of Mechelen is largely pedestrianised though you constantly have to watch out for speeding cyclists. It is arranged round a stunning, cobbled square, book-ended by a cathedral and the stadhuis or town hall. The Grote Markt is lined on 3 sides by 16th century or mock 16th century gabled buildings, all of them different. Old gabled buildings also line the surrounding streets. Even the replicas are over a century old. Former guildhouses or merchant houses, many of them have now been converted into smart boutiques or eating places. Their outdoor tables spill out into the street. Facing us as we walked towards the central square was the 14th century Alderman’s House, Mechelen’s first town hall, now turned into a tourist information centre. Here we learnt about the town’s glory years in the early 16th century, when it was briefly the capital of the Burgundian Empire. The town especially celebrates Empress Margaret of Austria who welcomed many artists and scholars, attracted by the pomp, ceremony and prestige of her court.

Mechelen, although modest in size, became the ecclesiastical capital of Belgium. It is sprinkled with fine, old churches and is dominated by the magnificent St Rombout’s Cathedral, with its soaring tower, built in the later 1500s. The latter is the tallest Gothic tower in the country at 97 metres, even though it was never fully completed. You can climb up its 535 difficult steps to go on a sky walk which offers 360 degree views, as far as Brussels and Antwerp on a clear day. Being increasingly nervous of heights we decided to give the climb a miss and stay safely at ground level. The 15th century Stadhuis is UNESCO listed. It comprises a former cloth hall and the arcaded Palace of the Great Council. A smartly dressed wedding party was gathering as we passed by. It was lovely strolling round the ancient square being transported back in time. The experience was enhanced by pretty tunes played every quarter of an hour on the cathedral’s carillon. This is a feature of any visit to Belgium. The tunes are played on a set of bells of different sizes. St Rombout’s tower houses Belgium’s finest carillon, a 49 bell affair. Each bell plays a different note. Carillons are technically the world’s largest musical instruments and were originally used as time- keeping devices and to mark special occasions. The bells are triggered by the rotation of a large drum with metal pegs. The pegs pull wires attached to the bell’s clappers. The frequent, gentle tingling of the carillon adds to the magical atmosphere of the town centre.

Our adventure/ holiday in Mechelen wasn’t adrenaline – filled but was full of delightful, little surprises as we strolled the quiet streets. We wandered into a couple of the churches and the cathedral itself, mainly Gothic affairs with high naves, classical pillars lining a tall nave, and ornate, gilded altars. A common feature of all of them is a massive, wood-carved pulpit. These feature saints, angels, cherubs, animals, birds and foliage. You name it, it’s there. They are over-the-top Baroque affairs from the 17th century. The wood carvers then were highly skilled and in great demand, as the Catholic church launched its counter-attack against the Protestant Reformation. There’s a lot of this extravagant church furniture in Belgium as it was/is the Catholic part of the Low Countries. The pulpit in Mechelen’s St Peter and St Paul Church has a particularly spectacular example. It’s a former Jesuit place of worship and at the time it was carved ( early 17th century) missionaries were spreading the Jesuit message all around the world. Thus the pulpit features a globe and human figures from all the known continents at that time. I spotted a native American with a feathered head-dress. Disturbingly, I also spotted a near naked African who was in chains. The carving was done when the African slave trade was in full swing and was supported by the church. Presumably they believed they were guiding “heathen savages” to Christian enlightenment. The church is beautiful if you can put aside this moral issue. It also features richly carved confessional boxes.

Another feature of old Belgian churches including the ones in Mechelen are large religious paintings, many of them completed several centuries ago. St Rombout’s Cathedral for instance has an Anthony van Dyck’s depiction of the Crucifixion, tucked away down a side aisle. He was Peter Paul Rubens’ star pupil back in the early 17th century and went on to become King James I’s and King Charles 1’s chief court painter over in London. It’s a realistic, graphic affair with muscular bodies writhing in agony on their crosses ( the 2 thieves are also included) and distraught, tearful onlookers. 17th century religious masterpieces like this are not for the faint-hearted. Also in the cathedral is a series of very old paintings portraying the story of St Rombout himself. He came to Mechelen as a Christian missionary from Ireland ( or possibly Scotland) to convert the “heathens” and was murdered for his pains. As a penitence, the conscience- stricken locals, once converted, built this huge edifice in his honour. Christians, especially Roman Catholics, love a martyr and Mechelen has its very own.

The streets beyond the cathedral were very quiet. In fact, we often were the only people there. There were no tourist masses, following the pink umbrella, queuing for a burger or an ice-cream or posing for selfies. We had the quiet lanes almost to ourselves. We strolled past 16th and 17th buildings undisturbed. One delight of Mechelen is its “secret” walled gardens. We came across 3 quite by chance. One is in the grounds of a grand 16th century house or palace, the Hof van Busleyden, now a museum. It had beautiful displays of tulips and irises. An information board told us that one problem they had back in the 1500s was bulb thieves sneaking in at night. Alright, it was a crime, but it illustrates how highly valued flowers were ( and still are) in the Low Countries. Our next enclosed garden was behind the cathedral and was a more informal affair with blossom trees and bushes, a grotto and a shrine to Mary in the corner. This is the Archbishop’s Palace garden. Finally, we discovered a Renaissance garden with boxed hedges in the grounds of a tapestry restoration company — De Wit. This was originally the grounds of an abbey built by monks in 1484.

We popped in to Sint-Janskerk ( St John’s Church) to see another incredible wooden pulpit and a series of impressive paintings including a triptych ( 3 for the price of one) of The Adoration of the Magi by Rubens himself. There was nobody there and the caretaker lady seemed very surprised to see us when we wandered in. She was even more shocked when I told her we were from England.

In our meander we were heading for an area called the Groot Begijnhof or Large Beguinage. This too is a World Heritage site. The Begijnhofs or Beguinages ( many things in Belgium have at least 2 names) were communities of religious ladies who devoted their lives to worship, but did not actually take the vows to become nuns. Their charming complexes include a church and collections of quaint cottages, often arranged around a green and surrounded by a protective wall. There are a whole series of them spread across Belgium and the Netherlands. The one in Mechelen merges with the adjoining streets but it is still delightful wandering down its narrow lanes and in and out of little closes. When we were there many of the doorways were decorated with little bunches of fading daffodils and tete a tetes, a reminder that Easter had only just finished. One little house had a special plaque outside it and apparently is a place of pilgrimage. It was here that a visiting Pope stopped to use the toilet back I think in the 1980s. The residents must have been very surprised to find the white clad Pontiff knocking on their door. Its water is now considered sacred by some Catholic visitors.

It was a lovely first full day in Belgium. A quiet, pleasant stroll in the sunshine with little surprises strewn along the way. I suppose it counts as an adventure as we were going into the unknown and were pretty tired and foot-sore at the end. We never encountered a sun lounge. Instead, we flopped on to the outdoor chairs of a cafe opposite the art gallery and enjoyed a restful drink. We had seen lots of things we wouldn’t have seen at home and had remained constantly interested and stimulated. Our pace had been gentle as befits our age but it had still been a bit of a magical mystery tour which is what we like. However, we enjoyed our rest in the evening as we didn’t want to overdo things. Afterall we were on a holiday!
The Meaning or Meaningless of Easter.

April 5, 2026

It’s Easter weekend. Our close is clogged with strange cars. Several of our neighbours are hosting family gatherings. The shouts and screams of young children disturbs our usual Sunday morning peace as people’s grandkids let off steam in the garden. Maybe soon, some of them will go on an Easter egg hunt or will be devouring some egg -shaped milk chocolate. I did it myself when I was a young kid.

I used to teach RE ( as well as history and geography) and a significant part of the curriculum was about Easter. Although we had to teach comparative world religions, studying the beliefs and practices of Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism etc, the emphasis had to be on Christianity as we are still officially a Christian country. For Christians, Easter is the most important festival of the year, even eclipsing Christmas in importance. That is difficult to believe in 21st century Britain in what is an increasingly secular society. It seems that our 2 main festivals are now driven mainly by commercial interests and the media rather than by the church. We go through the religious motions of course. Today’s news contained the obligatory item that the King and Queen and the rest of the Royal family ( except Harry and Andrew) have attended church at Sandringham this Easter morning. However, when I asked my pupils what Easter meant to them, the overwhelming answer was time off school and eating chocolate eggs. They might have added, time with their extended family. So much for all my carefully crafted lessons about the Christian idea of Jesus dying to save our sins, understanding humankind’s suffering by being tortured on a wooden cross and then being born again or resurrected to offer us hope and the promise of eternal life. ( if we play our cards right and the spirit in the sky forgives us our repented sins.)

I don’t blame my students as they were merely accurate representations of the society they lived in, although I don’t think they would have done very well in the end of term exam. When I was a young kid, I too looked forward to the time off school and the colourfully-wrapped easter eggs that my indulgent grandma and grandad would give to me. However I grew up in more religious times, back in the 1950s, when many more people attended church on Sundays and we children were packed off to 2 sessions of Sunday School as well as to an evening service. My parents and grandparents were Primitive Methodists ( the “Prims”) and were very strict followers of the rules that had been laid down for them by John Wesley and his mates at Oxford University in the 18th century. It was a sort of “off the peg” religion for the masses. Follow the rules ( the “method”) and you will lead a happy life and go to heaven when you die. This stuff about conquering death was, and still is, a very comforting, hopeful thought for many and explains why christianity became so popular. It also explains why Easter is so important.

As a child Easter also meant having to go to church twice in a weekend. It was a bit of a trial as all I wanted to do was go out and play with my mates and scoff my chocolate. On Good Friday we all went to church for a bout of communal misery. We were thinking of Jesus suffering on the cross and being subjected to a long, painful death. Apparently, the victim nailed to the cross didn’t die from blood loss, thirst or starvation as one might expect. He died because the dead weight of his slumping body crushed his lungs. You learn some gruesome things when you are an RE teacher. The mood in the Good Friday chapel was sombre and we sang down-beat hymns such as : ” There is a green hill far away, without a city wall, where our dear Lord was crucified, He died to save us all”. We were told that Jesus Christ, who was either God’s son or God in human form, had volunteered to take the punishment that God was going to dish out to the human race for all the bad things they had done while on earth. Jesus was the ultimate substitute. He was giving us all a second chance. All we had to do was confess our sins, say a sincere “sorry” and all would be well, as Jesus had already suffered our punishment. I wonder whether Stalin or Hitler believed in all this, a system that would allow them to get away with mass murder? But I digress from my childhood visit to the Good Friday service. It was a very trying, endurance test of patience. True Christians take it all very seriously though and even decorate their churches and themselves with crosses, the ultimate symbol of their Christ’s great sacrifice. The crucifixion and resurrection of Christ is even acted out in Passion plays. There was one presented by a drama company in Trafalgar Square this year. It must be weird being a tourist and taking a picture of someone realistically pretending to be suffering and dying on a cross.

Two days later, on Easter Sunday, we were back in church again for more hymns and prayers and another long sermon. But this time everything was upbeat and happy as we were celebrating Jesus’s resurrection, his cheating of death. We sang joyful songs full of optimism. Then when I got home, I was at last allowed the hit the chocolate!

So what’s this about eggs at Easter time? Surely it’s not really just about giving ourselves yet another sugar rush? As always in these festivals and traditions, a lot of symbolism is involved. The egg represents new life, because Easter always coincides with the arrival of spring. After the dreary, dead months of winter, we are all cheered up by the advent of Spring. We enjoy the appearance of snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils and tulips, bringing welcome colour to our gardens, parks and verges. We enjoy the beautiful blackthorn and cherry blossom. We like the arrival of lambs in the fields or spotting a baby rabbit. We love hearing the birdsong ( if we can hear it above the traffic noise), and seeing our feathered friends building their nests and laying their eggs. The eggs contain the new lives that give us all that hope that the world will go on for another year. Chris Packham and Michaela Strachan will be setting up their cameras so we can all witness this rebirth of the natural world on our television screens on Springwatch. Leaving all the religious stuff out of it, Easter for many, is simply a celebration of the coming of Spring. In fact it gets its name from the old English word: Eostre, the pagan goddess of Spring. As with Christmas, the Christians simply commandeered an already existing pagan festival and exploited it to increase their own popularity.

So the egg represents the hope of new life. Wearing my cynical vegetarian’s hat, I think it’s deeply ironic that many will celebrate Easter by eating slaughtered chickens, the most common and popular meat in the British cuisine. New life, new death. I wonder how KFC are commemorating Easter?

The egg, when broken open also symbolises for some the empty cave-tomb, the discovery of which told Jesus’s disciples that he had risen from the dead. Thus, because of their symbolic significance, Easter seems to be all about eggs. We eat chocolate versions of them, we decorate them, our children hunt for them, we decorate little Easter trees with colourful pretend eggs and stick them in our windows for others to see. A few years ago, a friend of mine hid a dozen Cadbury’s Cream eggs in his large garden for his grandchildren to find on Easter morning. It kept them enjoyably busy for a while. The trouble is that they only ever found 9 so there are still 3 chocolate eggs out there giving the worms an unexpected Easter treat! When my children and I visited Norwegian friends for Christmas back in the 1980s, we all painted hard boiled eggs the night before and then after the children had gone to bed , we hid them around the house and made up cryptic clues to help the young ones find them the following morning.

Since I became an adult, I have never been a great one for tradition. I resent having to put on a straight -jacket dictated to me by the rest of society. The pressure to conform has increased since the rise and rise of social media. Now we can all be the stars of our own “perfect” lives and show the world how lovely our Easter decorations are and what a happy time we are having with our wonderful, happy families. We post joyous photos or videos on Instagram or Facebook and wait for the “likes” and love emojis to come rolling in.

But, cynicism apart, if I stop to think about it, tradition is the glue that sticks our largely individualistic society together. Following a tradition help us to bond, feel part of a common society and reinforces our sense of identity. I think it’s a good thing that different generations of a family get together at festival time instead of staying in their separate boxes. I don’t really mind the extra cars and children’s screeches disrupting the normally peaceful existence of our close. It’s just a bit sad and difficult for people who don’t belong to a “happy” family however — the divorced, the widowed, the lonely. Either the family gatherings around them emphasise even more their isolation or they become the pitied relative in the corner of the room , invited because he/she is on their own. For some, it will a long day of food, drink and desultory small talk.

I think Easter is a strange remnant of a festival in modern Britain. A few go to church but many don’t . Lots of people get together with their families but others cannot. For the majority, the origins and real meaning of Easter have been lost in the mists of time. Britain now has a large Muslim minority. I wonder what they think about it all? As much as the rest of us think about Ramadan I suppose. There was shameful booing at Elland Road football stadium recently when play was stopped at dusk to enable 3 visiting muslim footballers to break their fast. Some probably Islamaphobic wag on social media suggested that Easter football matches be stopped to allow the Christian players on the field to eat their Easter eggs. His comment and the booing sadly show some people’s lack of respect for other people’s religions and festivals.

For the tens of thousands at the football stadiums Easter is about sport, and crucial promotion or relegations battles. For others Easter represents family gatherings, like a mini Christmas. For children it means chocolates, sweets and gifts. Some fly off for foreign holidays in warmer climes. Bikers like to gather together and go for a long ride in the countryside. Some use their time off work and school to go to the seaside and eat fish and chips or ice-creams. A few little traditions cling on. Some eat fish rather than meat on Good Friday and others munch into hot cross buns. There was a big controversy the other year when the supermarkets suggested leaving the cross off their cinnamon flavoured tea cakes, even though their taste wouldn’t be compromised one jot. We don’t have many traditions left in Britain but many cling on to the ones we still have even though their meanings and origins have been largely forgotten.

Yes, a lot of the meanings of the most important Christian festival are lost on many of the British public at large. Yet it is still an occasion that binds us loosely together, even if it just means saying “Happy Easter” to people in the street instead of the usual “good-day.”
Leaving England Without a Passport — a visit to Cardiff.

March 13, 2026

For my first trip out of England this year I didn’t need a passport, foreign currency or special documentation. It was quite a long journey but it didn’t begin with a shuffling security queue or an intrusive whole body scan. I know this sounds confusing, but I was leaving my country without actually leaving my country. You see, my official home country, the United Kingdom, consists of 4 separate countries rolled into one — England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. On this occasion I went on a trip from England to Wales.

Since Wales was brutally conquered in the 13th century by the Norman armies of King Edward I ( also know as the “Hammer of the Scots”), it has been forcibly chained to its larger and more powerful neighbour. For a long time it was in danger of losing all of its independence and identity. But over the centuries of subjugation the Welsh have stubbornly clung on to their culture and language. Finally in the late 20th century, significant power was devolved from Westminster to an elected Welsh Assembly in Cardiff. Welsh is now more widely spoken and taught in all schools. All signs are in Welsh as well as English. So, for Chris ( my wife) and I, we enjoyed the buzz of visiting another country without having to stray too far out of our comfort zone.

After a long, train journey from north-east England changing at Darlington and Derby, we finally crossed the England-Wales border at Chepstow, on the north shore of the Severn estuary. We tried to decipher our first Welsh signs, an impossible task. Upon leaving the station, we saw a forbidding Norman fortress, and not one, but two suspension bridges across the mighty River Severn. We travelled on through Newport and finally arrived at Cardiff Central station, part of the old Great Western Railway from London Paddington.

It was our first visit to the Welsh capital. It’s a city that was born out of the Industrial Revolution. The use of steam power created a huge demand for coal which just happened to be in plentiful supply in the south Wales valleys nearby. Iron ore was also mined and transported in large quantities. A canal, then a railway connected Merthyr Tydfil in the valleys with Cardiff on the coast. There, the landowning Bute family developed extensive dock facilities to handle the export of the “black gold.” The actual port was in Bute Town , south of the centre. The Butes and their city became immensely rich on the back of this trade. The population rose to 170,000 by the end of the 19th century and 227,000 by 1931. Cardiff was officially designated a city in 1905, and by 1913, it was the world’s top coal port, exporting 13 million tonnes of the stuff every year. However, the age of coal and even of fossil fuels in general is now coming to an end. Cardiff’s industry suffered in the 1930s Great Depression and the city and port were heavily bombed in the 2nd World War. So, for a number of reasons the city has had to reinvent itself. It has become a political, cultural, retail and sporting centre.

The old, dirty docks have been cleaned up and now, by the water, stands the modern Welsh Assembly building where one can see devolved democracy in action. Nearby, the Millennium Centre for the performing arts is a huge round building that looks like a spaceship that has come to earth. It’s made of different coloured Welsh slates ( purple, green and grey), topped by an over-arching shiny bronze roof. Above the main entrance the roof is pierced by 2 metre high, letter-shaped windows. They spell out phrases from the Welsh poet Gwyneth Lewis. They are very striking. At night they glow red. The Cardiff Bay area is a good mile’s slog on foot from the city centre. You can also catch a train or bus down there. We walked down for a look around. After visiting an interesting ( but expensive) craft gallery, we walked on to the Millennium Centre which has that magical trio of attractions — toilets, shop and cafe. Then we walked on to the waterfront which is dominated by the impressive red-brick Pierhead Building one of the few Victorian structures to survive. It’s in the French Gothic style and was put up in 1897. It has an ornate clock tower which is sometimes nicknamed the “Welsh Big Ben.”

With all these symbols of Welsh pride surrounding us, it seemed a bit perverse to visit a Norwegian church. To pile on the irony, I actually ate a Welsh rare-bit there. The church is a white, slatted wooden building with a black spire on top of it like a witch’s hat. It sits on the end of a tiny peninsula in Cardiff Bay. It was built in 1868. The design is based on a traditional Norwegian village church. Numerous Norwegians and other Scandinavians came to south Wales as seamen and traders, supporting the coal industry. Many stayed on and built churches in Cardiff, Barry, Newport and Swansea. The family of the children’s author : Roald Dahl , were amongst those who settled in the Cardiff area. Young Roald was actually baptised in the font of the same building where we enjoyed our lunch. The church has now been reconfigured as an arts centre and cafe. After its congregation dwindled because of the decline of the coal trade, the church was dismantled and then reassembled in its present picturesque location.

We had booked to see a modern dance production, Matthew Bourne’s “The Red Shoes”, at the Millennium Centre that evening but, not wanting to hang around for hours, we jumped on a bus which was just about to depart for the city centre. We had to pay £2.50 each for the privilege, as our English bus passes don’t work in Wales. The bus quickly plunged into a run-down, working -class area known as Bute Town or Tiger Bay. The singer Shirley Bassey famously came from this area along with the rugby player, Billy Boston. It is very multi-cultural and multi-racial. We saw Afghan, Indian, Chinese and Jamaican restaurants. We saw women walking around in burqas and passed a large mosque with a twisty, golden dome. A football match was shortly to begin and the streets were crowded with men, all walking in the same direction. We got stuck in a traffic jam but it was interesting looking out at the colourful street life.

From our hotel window, high up on the 17th floor, we had a spectacular view of the city centre. One of our ideas was to visit the castle which we could clearly see at the top of one of the main shopping streets. The plan was to visit the castle’s grand house, which had been originally been built in 1420 but had undergone major alterations in the 19th century to suit the fantasies of its owner, the third Marquess of Bute. He was obsessed with the Middle Ages and the whole house was remodelled as a mock-medieval, Gothic fantasy. To achieve this he employed the equally obsessed and eccentric architect, William Burgess, who apparently often walked around in medieval costume with a parrot on his shoulder. The result is an over-the-top, flamboyant fantasy which has to be seen to be believed. It’s not to everyone’s taste and I couldn’t live in it myself, but it made for a fascinating and unusual visit. The stand-out rooms such as the library, the banqueting hall and the Arab Room, are included in the price of a general tour. If you want to see the whole house, you would have to get on one of the hourly guided tours.

The house is impossible to describe. Just imagine an ornate kaleidoscope of : carvings, stained glass, marble, sandalwood, gold-leaf, mosaics, extravagant fireplaces, patterned rugs and friezes. The Marquess and his architect were both fascinated by astrology and religious symbolism, which is in plentiful supply. The banqueting hall is lined with heraldic shields and overlooked by a minstrel’s gallery. One half expected to hear the strains of Greensleeves to come floating down. The whole place is pure kitsch but, not surprisingly is the most popular part of the castle complex. We didn’t explore all the different areas so missed out inspecting the medieval keep or the Welsh military museum. ( the Firing Line). We also missed the WW2 air-raid shelter contained in a long, cold corridor within the thick castle walls. You cannot do everything. I admired the motte with the stone keep sitting on top of it and lovely daffodils decorating its green slopes. I liked the walls around the courtyard but was disappointed to find that they weren’t original or authentic. The castle had been built on the site of an earlier Roman fort and the Marquess of Bute in his wisdom had ordered Roman style walls to surround his Norman castle. Historical accuracy didn’t seem to bother him very much.

One interesting fact about the castle is that William the Conqueror’s eldest son, Robert was imprisoned there for many years until his death, aged 83. William chose Robert to succeed him as Duke of Normandy but selected his younger son Henry to follow him in the more powerful role of King of England. Because of the threat that his elder brother posed, King Henry I had Robert captured and locked up in the keep at Cardiff Castle for the rest of his life. So much for brotherly love!

To get to the castle we had to walk up one of Cardiff’s main streets, St Mary’s. The top section of it is pedestrianised. It’s full of eating and drinking establishments, plus a selection of shops. Parallel to it is another major, traffic-free shopping street, the Hayes, with all the main suspects represented. We restricted ourselves to Waterstones where I struck lucky, getting double stamps for my purchase because it was World Book Week. Between St Marys and The Hayes are several. atmospheric old arcades. We loved exploring them. One featured the oldest record shop in the country with a window display of nostalgic vinyl albums. We also spotted a colourful wool shop, an establishment selling Havana cigars and a gentleman’s felt hat shop. We wandered round a Victorian market hall. St Mary St is full of Victorian and early 20th century buildings, some of them quite impressive. Some have been put to a different use than originally intended. Banks have become bars and offices turned into restaurants. A handsome 19th century edifice on a prominent corner is now a Wetherspoons. My favourite transformation however, is the 1876 Philarmonic Hall which is now the Coyote Ugly Saloon! The whole central business area is overlooked by the Principality Stadium sitting on the banks of the River Taff. It dwarfs all the buildings around it, looking like a huge, praying mantis. It’s unusual to find a sports stadium right in the centre of the action. They are usually stuck in out- of- town locations where there is more space. It’s a pity that the Welsh rugby union team wasn’t playing a home match that weekend ( they were away in Ireland), as it would have been thrilling to hear the roar of the crowd and perhaps a rousing Welsh anthem or two.

On our second full day we walked up St Mary Street, past the castle and on into an area of stately neo-classical buildings. The Rough Guide describes it as “one of the most elegant administrative quarters in Britain.” One of these grand buildings was the venue for our second major cultural event of the weekend ( after the Modern Dance) — the Gwen John art exhibition, “Strange Beauties”, at the National Museum Cardiff. We entered via steps between huge classical columns. The outside of this magnificent building is adorned with sculpture and topped by two domes. It’s a sort of combination of the National Gallery and the Natural History Museum. Both outside and inside are impressive.

I said we went to view the Gwen John exhibition but for some people we told it was a case of Gwen who? They had never heard of her. Although a very talented painter, Gwen is not famous enough to feature in the premier division of celebrity artists. This was lucky for us as she is not yet a target for the mass tourist hordes. Miss John has largely gone under the radar. She is probably more famous for being the sister of Augustus John, her more flamboyant, artist sibling, and also for being a lover of the sculptor Auguste Rodin in France ( one of many!) Augustus recognised his sister’s great talent and predicted that in the future people would refer to him as Gwen John’s brother. Several friends of ours have recently rushed down to London to see the block-buster Turner- Constable exhibition at Tate Britain. I’m sure it is fantastic but I felt a certain satisfaction that we had travelled to one of Britain’s other capitals to see a less famous but still very talented artist. We were rewarded by being able to enjoy the drawings and paintings without fighting through jostling crowds.

It was a quiet, calm, soothing experience viewing Gwen’s quiet, calm, soothing pictures. There were only a sprinkling of other visitors. She painted three-quarter length portraits and peaceful interiors with a restricted palette. Looking at them and reading about her life was an interesting and reflective experience. Gwen and Augustus were born in Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire and later moved to Tenby after the early death of their mother. They both went to the pioneering Slade School of Art in London. Gwen’s final move was to France where she had an apartment and studio in Montparnasse before moving to the Parisian suburb of Meudon. After the obligatory visits to the museum shop and cafe, we viewed the permanent collection which includes some excellent Impressionist and Post Impressionist paintings including Monet, Sisley, Cezanne, Picasso, Van Gogh and a dazzling pair of Renoirs.

Our final afternoon was spent strolling around the University area with it’s grand buildings. Many of them were formerly owned by the Marquess of Bute but he cleared off when the coal industry was nationalised in the late 1940s and donated his castle, statement buildings and huge chunks of land to the city. The University has taken over many of them now. We strolled through beautiful Bute Park created from his lordship’s estate. Amongst the stately trees we admired carpets of daffodils and tete a tetes and a row of lovely red peonies. We spotted a tree creeper, a wren and 2 jays, hopping about in the undergrowth. The river runs through the park and is crossed by pictureque bridges. It has a visitor’s centre, a couple of cafes and a plant sale shop. Apparently the pots of primulas were very cheap but we couldn’t carry them home on the train. Upon leaving the park we came across the animal wall — another of Bute’s fantasies. At this point the castle wall is decorated with stone figures of animals and birds. We spotted a seal, a bear, a pelican and an ant-eater, amongst others. The latter was originally installed without its long nose, which was only added when the sculptures were restored. Apparently many of the children of Cardiff believed that the creatures from the animal wall came alive and wandered the streets at night. It’s a nice story.

Early on Monday morning we caught a train out of Cardiff for our journey back to the north of England. Again there were no security queues, baggage scans or passport checks. It had been an interesting and stimulating weekend in the Welsh capital and I’m glad we took the trouble to travel out of England to visit another part of the United Kingdom, beating many of the crowds on a road ( or rail) less travelled.
Welsh Rare-bits.

March 10, 2026

It was purely coincidence that in the very week of St David’s Day and just when the verges were starting to burst with golden daffodils, my wife Chris, and I went to Wales. We may even have eaten leeks for one of our main meals that week as well. We went on a city break to Cardiff, Wales’s capital city on its south coast. It was a long journey from the north east of England to the land of the Red Dragon. We finally entered our sister country at Chepstow, spotting the big, forbidding castle guarding the border. ( One of many in Wales). Our train quickly sped along the south Wales coast, passing through the city of Newport and then finally reaching the capital.

Considering it’s officially part of Great Britain ( and the United Kingdom), I have ventured into Wales quite rarely in my life. Perhaps, in hunting down more exotic locations, I have been guilty of taking the Principality for granted. Here are some of the rare bits of my life that I have spent amongst the Welsh, prior to this recent excursion.

CHILDHOOD HOLIDAYS and EARLIEST MEMORY.

When I was a little child growing up in Derbyshire, we took the trains to enjoy traditional seaside holidays in North Wales. We vacationed in resorts such as Colwyn Bay, Rhyl and Llandudno. In fact my earliest memory is of falling into a boating lake in a park in Colwyn Bay. I was about 3 or 4. I had been sailing my toy yacht on the little lake, when I tripped and plunged into the water. I still remember being underwater and seeing the shimmering reflection of my dad reaching down to pull me out — gasping and dripping. I still remember my mum’s classic exclamation: ” Oh look — he’s still got his cap on!”

On another Welsh holiday we took a tram up to the top of the Great Orme, the big, round hill overlooking Llandudno. My sister and I were treated to huge, knicker-bocker glory ice-creams in tall, fancy glasses. Apparently the owner of the cafe said that if we could eat them all up we would get another one each for free. We made valiant attempts but ultimately failed.

FREEZING COLD HONEYMOON.

Back in 1970, I actually went to Wales for a honeymoon with my first wife, A. We were poor students and the idea was to hitch- hike from Manchester where we were studying, to Conwy in North Wales. I was attracted by its impressive castle, medieval town walls, the picturesque location on the coast, and an historical bridge built by the famous road builder, Thomas Telford. It was on his road from London to Holyhead where boats could be boarded to Ireland. How can you tell I was a history student? A’s mum kindly gave us £50 which would cover our accommodation for 2 or 3 nights. Money went a lot further, back in those days. We didn’t have enough to cover transport though, so decided to stand by the side of the road and stick our thumbs out. It was early April. All went well at first but then we got stuck for ages on a hill in North Wales. To make matters worse it started to snow. In fact we endured a small blizzard. It wasn’t the romantic getaway that many imagine for their honeymoons. We finally got a lift from a kind lorry driver but arrived in Conwy looking like 2 half-melted snowmen.

We were cold and unfortunately experienced an extremely frosty reception from the land-ladies of Conwy. We hadn’t booked ahead and just looked for the “Vacancies” signs in the guest house windows. ( no internet in those days and we were even shy about using the telephone.) However, as soon as they saw 2 soaking beatniks, with long shaggy hair, duffel coats and rucksacks, the first 3 owners decided they didn’t have any vacancies afterall! We eventually found a place but it had no guest lounge and our bedroom was unheated and unwelcoming. We never felt comfortable or welcome in Conwy and quickly moved on to the more carefree, “kiss me quick” resort of Llandudno, a few miles away.

Llandudno was much more tourist -friendly and we got a warmer reception there. We found a well-heated, welcoming hostelry where we stayed for a couple of days and nights. Unfortunately, it was to be my first encounter with slippery, shiny nylon sheets. ( Can those readers of a certain age remember Brentford Nylons?) They were all the rage in those days. Inevitably I was just dropping off when I slid off the mattress and ended up on the floor! Still we had a pleasant couple of days there and even had enough pennies left to catch the train back all the way to Manchester.

CHOIR FESTIVAL.

Wales is famous for its choirs. Being a chorister has become a big part of my life and that is what led me to another encounter with Wales. In the second decade of the 21st century I was part of a community choir in Whitby, North Yorkshire. Every year we took part in a big street choir festival at various different location across the country. Inevitably , considering its reputation, one year we ended up in Wales. We sang in a big event in Aberystwyth on the west coast, halfway up Cardigan Bay. Chris and I drove through the mountains of mid-Wales enjoying lovely scenery and spotting loads of red kites soaring on the thermals high above us. I think they are the national bird of Wales. After all the singing in the streets and at the University of Wales, we headed north, visiting dramatic castles at Harlech and Caernarfon and going up Mt Snowdon on a quaint little steam train. The clouds magically parted when we got to the summit and we were treated to a magnificent view of Wales’s highest mountain range. I made a triumphant return to Conwy with my second wife. We visited the castle, walked the walls and explored the beautiful Bodnant gardens just south of the town. We took the precaution of staying in Llandudno though where we ascended the Great Orme , walked the pier and generally had a great time.

OUTWOOD BOUND.

A few years after the choir jaunt I was back on one of my occasional visits to Wales, visiting an outwood- bound centre in Pembrokeshire with my school. We had a bunch of 12 and 13 year olds. I remember getting very muddy, having a fab time with the kids but chickening out of abseiling down a frightening looking cliff face. It was a very emotional trip as it was the last one before my school on the west side of Newcastle, closed.

So there you have it — the sum total of my experiences in Wales before my recent city break in Cardiff. In the context of my longish life they are very rare bits indeed, if you’ll excuse the pun. Once in Cardiff one of my priorities was to have cheese on toast, know in posh circles as Welsh rarebit. We also planned to see an exciting modern dance performance at the Millennium Centre down on Cardiff Bay and view a fascinating art exhibition at the National Museum of Wales. Both were memorable experiences. But that’s another story.
The Slowly Closing Window.

January 23, 2026

I lost my glasses today. It’s becoming a more regular occurrence. My wife, Chris, often has the same problem. Forgetfulness is a sign of that dreaded phenomenon: ageing. It’s something that happens to us all sooner or later. I looked everywhere for them but to no avail. So I dug out my spare pair and remembered my late mum’s sound advice — if you can’t find something, stop looking and eventually it will find you. It worked, as half an hour later I found them under a newspaper which I had been using my glasses to read. The spares have now been carefully secreted back in the 3rd kitchen drawer down. Hot tip — always store important items in the same place, so the habit of looking there becomes ingrained.

So this is yet another blog about ageing. Groan! Groan! All readers under 60 can now click off. My excuse for writing about it is — yes, you’ve guessed it — I am irrevocably getting older. They say you should write about what you know. I have reached my mid 70s. I’ve got to the age where I like telling people how old I am, so they can hopefully stroke my ego and say “Well, you don’t look it.” I always hang back when paying at the barber’s to see if he/she is going to charge me the pensioner’s price or the one for “normal” people. Once, last year, one of them asked “You’re not 65 are you?” “No”, I replied, “I’m not….. I’m 75!” Boom Boom! So now you know — I’m old enough to remember Basil Brush. ( For the uninitiated, that irritatingly smug, little fox originally graced our screens back in the 1960s)

I’ve just returned from my monthly meet up with 2 former teaching colleagues who have now developed into long term friends. It’s a sort of “Last of the Summer Wine” scenario. ( another blast from the past.) We go for a walk, chew the cud, try to solve all the problems of the world, then enjoy a meal together. We take it in turns to host. Each meet-up now inevitably starts with an “organ recital” as one of my friends, Alex, joked. We compare illnesses and ailments of our own and of those around us. We are all in our 8th decade so have plenty to talk about, although compared to many of our generation, we are still pretty fit and healthy. Our latest discussion included: hearing aids, prostates, colonoscopies, cystoscopies, doctors, nurses, dentists, vaccinations, opticians and hospital visits. Health usually trumps the weather as our generation’s favourite topic of conversation. Sometimes I think of myself as a vintage car, parked in a quiet cul-de-sac, viewing all the sleek new hybrids, Teslas and automatics that have come along to replace me.

It’s worrying that others of our age group have already fallen by the wayside. Just recently we lost the Teesside pop/rock singer Chris Rea, aged 74 and Bob Weir, original member of the hallowed Grateful Dead, aged only 78. David Bowie didn’t even make it to 70 although, to be fair, he did live life in a very fast lane. Every time somebody famous from my generation passes away, it makes me sit up and become aware of my own mortality. Then I get into a slight panic as I have: so many things I still want to do, so many books on my shelves yet to read, so much music to enjoy, so many places in the world left to visit. With the passing of the years, I know the number of opportunities to do exciting and interesting stuff are gradually dwindling. It’s like a slowly closing window.

I love travelling to new destinations, especially abroad. It’s one of my life-long passions. Since retirement in 2006 I have had the time and since my occupational pension was joined by the state pension, I have had the money to go on plenty of exciting and fascinating trips. The 3rd requirement to feed one’s wanderlust is good health which I still luckily have. So the opportunity to have great adventures is still there and I have plenty of plans in the pipeline. This year I plan to visit Belgium, Italy (where Chris has close family), Denmark, Sweden and Egypt. One thing missing from these plans however is a long haul trip. My days of back packing through south -east Asia or trecking the Inca trail to Machu Picchu in Peru are sadly over. Just for the record I did the former but never got round to doing the latter. Now it’s probably too late. The energy levels are not what they were and Chris and I no longer want to rough it or endure the strain and discomfort of a long flight. Also, something I never anticipated when I was younger — the anxiety levels are starting to rise, leading to the vetoing of holidays that offer unknowns and potential complications. We now think of the problems more than the opportunities. We had an absolutely fabulous trip to Japan just over 2 years ago, the best holiday we have ever had. However any thought of returning has now been overwhelmed by the “what ifs.” What if one of us is ill? What if we get robbed or scammed? What if we lose our passports? What if we get too tired to complete the itinerary? What if we miss one of our flights? After several discussions, it has been “officially” agreed that we are not going back this year and, given our age, it looks like we never will. If Dr Who lent us his Tardis we would go like a shot. But we cannot face the extremely long, debilitating journey, the change of time zones and subsequent disruption of our body clocks, the alien food which might play havoc with our tummies, or the constant stress of catching trains, planes and buses and worrying whether we are going to make connections. I told you — we have become big time worriers! Thus we have chosen the safer and easier option of European city breaks, just a few hours away.

Some people circumvent the problems and worries of finding their way round a strange country by going on an all-in escorted tour. It seems to be the easiest and most obvious option. But now that we have reached a certain age, Chris and I find it a strain to follow someone else’s itinerary, often involving early starts and constantly moving on. On a recent escorted tour in Turkey, excellent as it was, we resented being told when to get up, when to eat breakfast, where we were going to visit and how long we were allowed to stay. We had ceded our independence and control in exchange for peace of mind. It’s a difficult equation to balance.

Dropping energy levels is another factor that has closed our window of opportunity just a little bit more. However, I don’t want this to turn into a sob, sob story. We still hopefully have plenty of exciting experiences ahead of us even though they will be gradually nearer and nearer to home.

Ageing is just another chapter in life that we have to get on and deal with. I am lucky that I have not yet succumbed to any serious illnesses. I would like to think that I would make the most of what life has to offer for as long as I can. Thus far it has thrown up various problems but none that are unsurmountable. As Woody Allan said in “Annie Hall” ( one of my favourite films): “A problem is an opportunity in disguise.” I used that quote in a job interview once, and got the job! Afterall, life often involves problem solving. So now I am looking forward to visiting Scandinavia instead of the Far East. I read with the aid of prescription glasses. I put my National Health hearing- aids in when I switch on the telly or meet up with people for conversation. I go for 5 mile walks in the countryside instead of 10. I go to bed earlier and often have a little lie in. I keep taking the tablets. ( don’t worry – nothing serious.) And I remember to put my glasses in the third kitchen drawer down. ( unless I mislay them first.)
Crimbo Limbo.

December 31, 2025

I’m writing this at that strange time of the year — the week between Christmas and New Year. Some have dubbed it “Twixmas” while others have cornily called it “Crimbo Limbo”. Half of the population is desperately clinging on to the so called festive season, while the other half is keen to get back to normal. The Christmas lights are still twinkling but the excitement generated by gatherings of family and friends and present swapping has largely evaporated. Peoples’ visitors have either gone home or they are forlornly trudging around the streets with them trying to find something to do with many of the cafes, museums, libraries and galleries and some of the shops still closed for the holiday.

It was a long, long build up to the “big day” this year. ( 2025.) When Chris, my wife, and I landed back in Manchester after a mid-November overseas holiday, Christmas was unbelievably already in full swing. Christmas lights decorated the streets and squares, big store entrances were flanked by giant fir trees, festive markets were doing brisk business, and it was all being played out to a background chorus of familiar carols and seasonal songs. Shoppers scurried around with bulging bags of presents and rolls of wrapping paper. I had to pinch myself in disbelief. It was only halfway through November, and apparently it had already been going on for a week before we got back. We had been visiting a Muslim country ( Turkiye) so all this frenetic festive activity gave us a strong dose of reverse culture shock. Much of it was driven by out -and- out commercialism of course but many people seemed to be throwing themselves enthusiastically into the game. All this and Mary, Joseph and the donkey had probably not even set off yet!

And so we entered the fray — buying presents, writing and posting cards ( expensive!), putting up our lights and the obligatory, baubled tree, meeting up with friends and family, and going to a whole stream of pre-Christmas meals until our stomachs were begging us for respite. Yes, we joined in the annual madness but drew the line at Christmas jumpers. Primark wasn’t going to get our custom. The supermarkets suddenly became full of sprouts, towering mountains of Quality Street and lakes of beer and prosecco. I searched my brain and couldn’t recall any scenes of Mary and Joseph getting tipsy with the shepherds or chomping chocolates with the 3 wise men.

As we got into December it seemed to be compulsory to mention “Christmas” in every second sentence. It replaced the weather as the topic of conversation that glued our disparate society together. Everyone wanted to know what I was doing for Christmas even though nobody cared what I was doing on any other day of the year. The usual questions popped into conversations — Are you ready yet? Are they coming to you or are you going to them? How many will be sitting round your table? ( predictably pulling crackers, wearing paper hats and reading corny jokes on the big day.) Much of this was driven, as always by the media but in recent years this has been reinforced by constant posts on social media portraying people’s “perfect” Christmas celebrations. The excitement built up to a frenzy and I knew things were at last about to kick off when Dave’s illuminated nodding reindeer appeared on next door’s lawn.

Well for me it was the usual enormous anti-climax I’m sorry to say. No single day could live up to that massively over the top build up. I am not a child anymore; my own children have all left home; I am an agnostic so don’t go to church; I am a vegetarian so don’t indulge in turkey or goose. I am also a former Methodist so don’t really have much of a thing for alcohol. I am pre-diabetic so I cannot eat loads of chocolates, cakes or puddings. I try not to go on about it as if you don’t join in all the traditions, people call you “Scrooge”, “spoil sport” and other unflattering names. I blame Charles Dickens.

And so it is now more or less over for another year but we are still in the limbo period bookended by the two bank holidays. For me this is a time for reflection. I think of all my past Christmases at different stages of my life. ( and I don’t need a Dickensian ghost to remind me.) As a child I remember the excitement of waking up on Christmas morning and seeing a pillow slip bulging with gifts at the bottom of my bed. ( we didn’t do stockings in our house.) Santa had been! I could usually rely on getting some new Dinky toys ( toy cars) for the garage my dad had made for me, a Rupert the Bear annual and at least 2 selection boxes, from each of my lovely grandmas. Later Rupert the Bear was replaced by Billy the Kid albums about the Wild West. It’s funny how people thought that reading about a cold-blooded murderer was deemed appropriate for the season of peace and goodwill to all men.

Of course, being in a religious family, Christmas Day also involved an extra visit to church to listen to all the familiar bible readings which we could almost recite by heart and sing the favourite carols that we wrapped around us like comfy blankets. The last verse of Oh Come all Ye Faithful was always sung with extra gusto — ” Yay Lord, we greet thee, on this happy morning.” We all felt that strong sense of belonging and togetherness. Another highlight was when my sister and I got silver coins pushed into our hands by kind members of the congregation. It was usually half a crown ( 2 shillings and 6 pence) which was a lot of money in those pre-decimalisation days. Then it was back for the special Christmas day feast which for us was pork and all the trimmings — carrots, parsnips, sprouts, mashed and roast potatoes, apple sauce, stuffing and a rich, thick gravy. We could not afford turkey, goose or chicken. In those days ( 1950s and 60s) , before the days of factory farming, a chicken was still regarded as a special, luxury treat to eat. Next, like everybody else we had Christmas pudding and white, brandy sauce. We were big supporters of tradition and so ate what most people in the country were eating. Later, after the Queen’s Speech on telly at 3pm, we had a late, light tea, the highlight of which was Christmas fruit cake topped with marzipan and icing. I always rushed through my tea as I wanted to watch the pantomime on TV. As I entered my teens and became more sexually aware, the big attraction of the panto was Prince Charming ( or equivalent) who was always an attractive young woman with long, shapely legs and stiletto heels. She was much more attention- grabbing than soppy Cinderella in her long dress. It was an early example of gender bending, standing alongside the likes of Widow Twanky, who was (is) always a man in drag. Yes I enjoyed Christmas Day as a child and young teen. It had many highlights.

However, everything changed in 1967 when I was 17 years old. My innocence was shattered. After his retirement from the coal mine, my paternal grandad ran a small- holding consisting of pigs and chickens. That Christmas he wrung a chicken’s neck in front of me and gave it to us for our Christmas dinner as a special “treat.” My dad later invited me to help him pluck the poor lifeless thing and remove its giblets. I refused to touch it and then announced I wasn’t going to eat it either. It was my Saul on the road to Damascus moment and turned me into a lifelong vegetarian . A friend gave up meat with me after reading about the horrendous goings on in abattoirs, and we took the life changing decision together. Vegetarianism and veganism were much less common in those days and most veggies were widely mocked as cranks. On the “big” day we just went out tramping around the streets and into a local park. We got really cold. In an act of kindness and support which I’ll never forget, my sister, who I never really got on with, pushed a tupperware container of vegetables in cheese sauce into my hand, along with a spoon to eat it. I was really moved.

Once I left home the straight jacket of tradition was further loosened. The first Christmas dinner I ate with my new wife, at the age of 20, consisted of egg and chips! We were sick of conforming! Once we had our own children some of the traditions crept back and we made more of an effort to make the day special for our family. But the vegetarian fayre remained a fixture. In many ways we were a typical family enjoying the joys of Christmas. But all good things sadly have to come to an end. For reasons not to be disclosed here, divorce tragically came our way and the family was blown apart. My wife and I split up and I volunteered to be the one to leave the home and be an outsider in my own family. It was very tough, and for some reason, it was even tougher emotionally at Christmas.

Of course I got invited to spend much of the day with my ex-wife and 3 children but it wasn’t the same. I woke up alone instead of being woken by squeals of delight from the children. The family in turn had to wait for me to arrive before they could open their presents. It was as if I was delivering myself to the children as an extra Christmas present. The day passed pleasantly enough as we played the game of happy families complete with crackers, funny hats etc, but there came a time when I had to leave. I lived 5 miles away and had to cycle back to my new home as I didn’t own a car and there was no bus service. I still distinctly remember the gut wrenching feeling when the door closed and I was standing alone on the dark path. For many, Christmas is all about being with one’s loved ones but if one is excluded from the family for whatever reason, then every positive becomes a negative. It’s the flip side of the coin.

I have never forgotten that feeling of being on the outside looking in. Everytime I passed scenes of families enjoying themselves in that holiday period, it rubbed salt into my wounds. Divorce is not the only reason why families split up and the idealised version of Christmas becomes impossible. Bereavement is another major factor, especially as we get older. I have joined various Facebook groups, one being “Born in the 40s, Grew up in the 50s.” It’s usually a place where nostalgic memories are shared by older people like yours truly. I feel lucky because I have now remarried and enjoy lovely quiet Christmases with my wife. ( our children and grandchildren live away.) But I was shocked this year to read 2 posts that didn’t fit the normal social media pattern of trying to show how wonderful one’s life is. Both said ” Christmas was sh-t. I was lonely and miserable.” Both were from men . Had they been divorced or bereaved or had they never hitched up with anybody in the first place? Several of my friends have sadly died over the past few years, and as I wrote my cards to their widows , I couldn’t help wondering what type of Christmas they would now have. They say the loneliest place to be is in the middle of a crowd. Similarly, it must be really difficult to be suffering feelings of loss and unhappiness at a time when the rest of society is being programmed to be merry and happy. “Tis the season to be jolly” the carol goes, but not if you’re unwillingly on your own.

So, as I said, my Crimbo Limbo has turned into a time for refection and of trying to empathise with others who are less fortunate than myself. In this cold, wintry weather for instance I’m glad to have a warm, dry home and that I am not trying to sleep in a freezing shop doorway. Obviously, one cannot help thinking of victims of war, persecution, famine and disease. Then there are the people who are ill and the carers who are having to look after them. My heart goes out to all the suffering people in the world and I do my best to support the charities that try to help them. Soon the lights and decorations will come down, the New Year fireworks will have fizzled out and the reality of normal life will return. I will think of the people dragging themselves back in to work after the holiday, knowing that I now have the luxury and privilege of being retired from the daily grind. The only trouble is, I am getting older and every year I have more and more memories to look back on during this strange quiet period between Christmas and New Year. I hope you all had a merry Christmas and I wish you all a very happy and prosperous New Year.
Last Days in Turkiye — A Long Journey and a Mystical Surprise.

November 29, 2025

It was the last 2 days of our Turkish tour, travelling with a bunch of interesting people led by our indomitable guide, Abdullah. Our tour group was not only interesting and sociable — 3 of them had become overnight heroes. An Indonesian tourist had suddenly arrested in the hotel restaurant the evening before, and the heroic trio, 2 men and a woman, had worked as a team to perform CPR on the poor guy. They did this for a full 20 minutes until the ambulance finally arrived. We heard later that the gentleman had pulled through and had had stents put in. Chris and I missed the drama as we had decided to have an early night to prepare for our long coach journey the next day but we learnt all about it at breakfast.

So it was goodbye to Cappadocia, the land of surreal landscapes, troglodyte villages and medieval, frescoed rock churches. It was goodbye to the colourful armada of hot-air balloons that were rising into the pink, dawn sky as we drove off. Our group of 40 ( plus guide and driver) settled down for the lengthy 330+ journey back to the Mediterranean coast at Antalya. We had seen some incredible sights but I guessed that the highlights of the trip were now all behind us. No journey in a foreign land is a waste of time however. This one was to throw up a couple of fascinating surprises.

The first surprise came only about 40 minutes in. We pulled into a roadside services that had been created out of an old, medieval caravanserai or desert inn. We were back on the route of the Silk Road from China, through central Asia to the eastern Mediterranean. Curiously, Abdullah said we must stand still and stop talking in 20 minutes time at 9.05 am precisely. We would then depart at 9.06. We were bemused and wondered what was happening. It turned out that it was the anniversary of Kemel Ataturk’s death in November, 1938 at the age of 57. His last breath was taken at 9.05am on the 10th. Ataturk was the much revered founder of modern Turkey in the early 1920s. So November 10th is a Turkish version of Remembrance Day. Coincidentally, the British Remembrance Day is just 24 hours later on the 11th. It was only now that I noticed that all the buildings were festooned with the red and white Turkish flag — a crescent moon cradling a single star. Many buildings also had large scale photos of the great man himself. So we stood to attention and bowed our heads at the appointed time and then were off again, driving across a featureless, flat plateau towards the city of Konya.

I had imagined Konya as an historical place full of ancient Ottoman buildings, evocative bazaars and colourful markets. However, as we approached, all we could see was a vast industrial estate, ranks of apartment and office blocks, busy roads and a modern tramway. It was a bit of a shock — the gap between expectation and reality. However, we were not to be disappointed, as soon we were gazing at one of Turkiye’s most celebrated religious sanctuaries — the original home of the Whirling Dervishes. It was worth the journey. Before I describe our memorable visit, some explanation is required.

Konya is a major place of pilgrimage in the Muslim world and special for all pious Turks because it was the adopted home of Jalal al Din Rumi. In Turkiye he is better known as the Mevlana or Our Master. Rumi or the Mevlana lived in the 13th century and was a poet, philosopher and mystic. His ideas led to a new and important strand of Islam, called Sufism, being formed. It’s a religion based on mysticism and centred on a ritual performed by the “Whirling Dervishes.” We had seen a performance by a group of Dervishes back in Cappadocia. It had been stressed to us that this was not a tourist entertainment but a genuine spiritual ceremony with the aim of uniting with God ( Allah.) There was to be no applause and no photos, except at the end when they came back for a brief curtain call. There were 5 men doing the spinning or whirling, another older guy who was a sort of master of ceremonies and 4 musicians who also sang . The whole ceremony lasted for 45 minutes.

The idea is that just about everything in the natural world is cyclical. For example, the rotation of the earth, the seasons, the water-cycle or the circulation of blood round the body. The aim of the Dervish ceremony is for the people involved to escape their earth- bound status, and become part of nature by spinning around in a circle. This would open them up to go on a spiritual journey towards God. At first they wore dark, closed cloaks and tall, dark, plant-pot like hats. These represent the earthly tomb that man’s ego is trapped in. Once the hats and cloaks are removed and they start to spin around, their white skirts fan out and allows them to escape their ego and be spiritually born again. At first the Dervishes have their arms closed tightly across their chests, but as they whirl, their arms open up. The right hand points up to God, while the left points down to the earthly shackles that have been left behind. That’s the theory anyway. It was very interesting and quite moving. The effect was lessened somewhat however when we saw one of them in the car park afterwards, now wearing his jeans and football shirt, checking his mobile and getting into a big, flashy car.

Anyway, here we were in Konya, where it had all started 1200 years ago. We were about to visit the museum and mosque that has been created around the Mevlana’s tomb. It was his mausoleum. Soon the focus of both pilgrims and tourists came into spectacular view. In front of us was a huge mosque- like building with 2 large domes, a tall minaret, a dozen smaller domes that sprouted along the roof-top like mushrooms and, most unusual of all a tall, turquoise, fluted tower. Upon closer inspection the tower was decorated with a band of blue and gold Arabic calligraphy. The Mevlana’s ornate tomb sits directly below this tower. The building was originally the first HQ or Lodge of the Dervish sect. It was started a year after the Mevlana’s death in 1273. More grand buildings were added by Sultans in the 15th and 16th centuries. The whole complex is surrounded by rose gardens. It stopped being a religious centre in the 1920s when Ataturk was establishing modern Turkey as a secular state.

We walked round the side the museum and into a large courtyard. Crowds of visitors were swirling around. In the middle was a place where worshippers were doing their ablutions. (cleansing themselves with water.) Round the side were the cells where the dervishes had prayed — now turned into an exhibition explaining sufism. To enter the building we had to put plastic covers over our shoes. The place was heaving. Above us were the domes, highly decorated with geometric patterns and fancy calligraphy. To our right were the elaborate tombs of Rumi, his father and his closest disciples. Each tomb was topped by a small wooden pole round which rich material was wrapped to create a kind of turban. The one on Rumi’s tomb was a deep turquoise green. This turban symbolises Rumi’s spiritual authority. The star tomb was naturally the Mevlana’s or Rumi as we know him in the west. It had scores of pilgrims, men, women and children, praying in front of it. Some even had tears in their eyes. Nobody worried about us tourists wandering around in the midst of all this religious fervour with our jaws dropping, as Sufism preaches that non-believers should be treated with respect.

Rumi’s tomb and its surroundings are exquisitely beautiful. The tomb area is supported by 3 ornate columns with archways in between. The walls have elaborate embellishments representing paradise. Broad pink, blue and green bands are adorned with golden Arabic script. The raised tomb itself has beaten gold ornaments inside and is covered with vitrified tiles on the outside. The sarcophagus is draped with a beautiful gold-embellished veil. It is topped with the already mentioned green turban. In front of it is a silver cage on which verses from the Koran are carved. The whole scene, with the worshippers and the richly decorated tomb was quite overwhelming. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and above us were the beautifully decorated domes. It’s difficult to describe how wonderful it all was. It felt as if I was experiencing a part of the real Turkish life and that I wasn’t just in a tourist trap. A number of grand halls contained historical and religious artifacts and at the end we briefly peeped into women’s and men’s prayer rooms, showing that it is still an active place of worship.

The Rumi Museum and mausoleum in Konya was definitely one of the highlights of the whole trip for me. We eventually walked back to the coach and continued on our journey. We travelled on, eventually reaching the impressive Taurus Mountains. As soon as we reached the other side and descended on to the coast, we ended up in Antalya’s teatime rush hour. Our compensation was to witness a magnificent blood red sunset over the dark, distant mountain peaks. Then it was a late meal at the hotel, when we could swap notes with others in the group, before we finally hit the sack.

Our last day was spent in Antalya first of all visiting a jewellery workshop and then a leather outfit. The talks and demonstrations were interesting but the hard sell at the end wasn’t welcome for most of the group. We worked out that we were being dragged along to these places because they paid the tour company to deliver us there and thus subsidised the holiday that we had all been attracted to by the bargain price. Finally we were set free in the old town and harbour for 3 hours but as we were tired and were nervous of getting lost Chris and I just had a little potter around a small, defined area and shared a nice meal with another couple whom we had teamed up with. The bit we saw of Antalya was pretty tacky and commercialised but I’m sure there would be some interesting parts to discover if we had had more time and energy. For instance, the Rough Guide says the Archaeological Museum there is outstanding. Maybe next time , if we go there on an independent trip.

We left early next morning for our flight back to rainy Manchester. We were hoping for a quiet, smooth departure but our luggage got lost and we spent a tense, uncomfortable half hour in the departures lounge waiting to be reunited with it, as we eventually were. It had been a great trip overall, albeit tiring and hectic because of the sights and experiences that had been packed in to just 6 whirlwind days. We learnt a lot, saw a lot, met lots of interesting people, had a few disappointments but enjoyed many, memorable highlights. One last thrill was seeing the Swiss Alps as we flew over the entire length of Europe back to the UK. Now it was time to get back to reality and catch up on sleep. The Premier Inn’s bed in Manchester was extremely comfortable!
CAPPADOCIA — Experience of a Lifetime?

November 26, 2025

After a long coach journey from Antalya ( Turkiye), we had finally made it to Cappadocia, the land of a thousand tourist dreams. According to AI its the Turkish land of unique “fairy chimney” rock formations, cave dwellings and underground cities. It sounds like a veritable heaven for today’s armies of camera clicking Instagrammers. I had been thinking of going there for many years but had never got round to committing. But now, at last, thanks to a bargain priced tour , my wife, Chris and I had finally made it.

We had travelled into the area through mountains and then across a flat, featureless plateau. We had arrived after dark ( it was November), so we would have to wait until morning to see the famous landscape. Some have described it as like being on the surface of the moon or visiting an alien planet. We all got ready to channel our inner Captain Kirks.

However in the morning, before we even got to see the weird and wonderful rocks, we were treated to another spectacle. As the sun slowly rose, hundreds of multi-coloured hot air balloons gently took to the air. It was an incredible sight and we even delayed breakfast in order to stand and gawp at it.

Hot air ballooning over the lunar landscape of Cappadocia is a top tourist draw. Our guide Abdullah was very keen for us to give it a go. He said not to go ballooning would be like visiting Paris and not going up the Eiffel Tower or going to Egypt and not seeing the Pyramids. He warned us that if we didn’t go on a sunrise balloon ride we would regret it for the rest of our lives. I think he was on commission! (He’d obviously not been there when Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band had played for over over 4 hours at St James’s Park, Newcastle in 1985 as part of their “Born in the USA” tour.) I don’t like being told what I should do but the real reason that Chris and I didn’t go for it was because we are very nervous of heights. Going up Blackpool Tower as a teenager is still one of the scariest things I’ve done in my life. That’s why we decided to forego the trip of a lifetime and stay earth bound. Lesser reasons were the £150 per person fee and having to get up in the middle of our sleep to catch the glorious glows of the sunrise. We opted for a much needed lie in and a healthier bank balance. We were in a small minority though. About 33 of our group of 40 signed up. One lady even told us that the hot air balloon ride was the only reason she had come on the trip.

The experience of a lifetime for the 33 had to wait however, until the second morning of our stay in Cappadocia. Earlier strong winds had caused a backlog of people wanting to fly. In the meantime, we had the relatively mundane task of touring the area by coach and on foot. Even without the adrenaline rush of taking to the air, I still found it a fascinating and thrilling day.

Cappadocia is an area in the south- central part of Anatolia, in the Asian part of Turkiye. It used to be so remote that persecuted Christians travelled there to hide out during the Arab and Turkish invasions of the 7th to the 11th centuries AD. Now it has become a hugely popular magnet for tourists who flock there from all over the world. It is one of the jewels in Turkiye’s tourist crown.

The strange, highly photogenic landscape was created by the eruptions of 3 volcanoes, now extinct. The lava set into very hard Basalt but at the same time, their ash was compressed and solidified into a softer rock known as “tuff.” Water and wind action has weathered these tuff formations into fantastical shapes. Thus now there are : table mountains, canyon like valleys, whole hillsides of cone-shaped rocks ( My Whippy would have been proud of them), and weird pillars of sculpted soft rock topped with mushroom-like slabs of darker basalt. These eye-catching forests of pillars have been dubbed “fairy chimneys” by the tourist trade, although to many, their phallic shape is what first comes to mind. One area is called “Love Valley” and I don’t think the namers were thinking of fairies or mushrooms.

The refugee Christian communities found the tuff rock very malleable. In other words it was tuff but not tough. They carved out houses and churches, not to mention whole sub-terranean cities. It was a full scale, troglodyte community.

We set off for “Love Valley” after breakfast. It’s a deep canyon and is full of fairy chimneys, the phallic-shaped rocks that some have thought of as fertility symbols. Hence it has been given its “Love” title. The sight of all the fairy chimneys is indeed startling. They seem so unreal They appear in eye-catching clusters and every one is unique and constantly changing because of the way it is being weathered by the elements. As soon as the coach parked, I scampered off, trying to get my own photos of the spectacle. Unfortunately the position of the rising sun hampered my attempts to get a clear cut picture, and pesky hot-air balloons kept descending and blocking the view of some of the most picturesque clusters. I had to duck and dive to get a few half-decent shots. Despite everything though, it was a wondrous sight to take in.

The tourist trade knows this once remote rock-scape is now a massive draw , and it has exploited it to the full. On the edge of the canyon are car parks, refreshment stalls and souvenir hawkers. One can sit on a pony, a horse or a dromedary camel to have a selfie taken. The presence of the horse is very appropriate as Cappadocia is Hittite or ancient Persian for “the land of the beautiful horses.” Of course you can pop in and out of Love Valley in a hot air balloon. The most tacky sight in my opinion was of large love hearts, festooned with plastic flowers and ribbons, where one can sit for that “romantic” souvenir photo. Obviously , the latter gimmick is playing on the modern name for this unique valley. Mass tourism and commercialisation is doing its best to spoil a natural phenomenon .

After our alloted time we all piled on the coach, gulped down some water as it was getting hot, and drove on to the next place on our Cappadocian tourist trail. It was called Goreme and is one of the few remaining settlements where rock cut churches and fairy chimneys are still inhabited. It has an atmospheric honeycomb of cave dwellings etched into a steep hillside. We went into one multi-storied rock house which was open to tourists. It was (is) very tall and divided into several floors connected by steep, narrow ladders. Each floor got progressively smaller as we got closer to the top of the cone shaped rock. It was quite precarious as we clambered gingerly up and down the metal ladders. ( a modern addition.) The floors are carpeted and have low-slung sofas covered with richly coloured textile throws. Windows had been cut out of the rock but had no glass. It was like visiting Fred and Wilma Flintstone or their neighbours, the Rubbles. The Turkish attendant had obviously cottoned on to this, as he greeted visitors with an enthusiastic ” Yabadabadoo!” Once out of the quaint rock house we climbed the hill in increasingly hot and bright sunshine. As we ascended, the views of the surrounding volcanic landscape were impressive. Goreme is amazing even though now heavily commercialised. Rock cones have been turned into houses, hotels, restaurants, bars, shops and almost anything else you can think of. All types of tourists are catered for from back-backers to luxury seekers. All sorts of activities are on offer. One agency we passed was advertising : hot air balloon flights, horse riding tours, camel safaris, Quad Bike tours, jeep safaris, a vintage car tour, a Turkish night party or a “performance” of the Whirling Dervishes. The choice is mind boggling. One wonders how much longer the delicate natural environment can withstand such relentless pressure.

On we drove to Monks Valley, another wonderland of weird, phallic rock pillors. The difference this time was that we could walk amongst them instead of just viewing from above. Each pillar of tuff is topped by a black, basalt cap. Interspersed with the rock forest were bushes and trees sporting bright yellow, autumn leaves, gleaming in the sun. The valley is extraordinary but by the time we got there in the late morning, lots of people were pouring in. It was the weekend and also the start of a school holiday, so there were large numbers of Turkish families. We had to queue to get in and even queue to get out! The entrance and exit are controlled by turn-styles. At the head of the valley are fast food, ice-cream and souvenir stalls, plus restaurants, toilets and a large coach park, which had at least 20 coaches in it when we left. A quiet valley of fantastic rocks has been changed into a busy tourist mecca.

After a set-menu lunch in an underground rock restaurant we visited part of an underground city created by the refugee Christian and monastic communities in medieval times. It sounds exciting but was actually a bit of an anti-climax as we only saw a few rooms used for strange or to house animals. We were warned not to go in if we suffered from claustrophobia as there were some very narrow passages with low roofs. However it was fine. Obviously the guide has never been in the caves and caverns of the Peak District of Derbyshire near where I grew up. The Peak Cavern in Castleton actually has a long, low entrance nicknamed “lumbago walk.” We weren’t issued with helmets or anything. Health and safety seemed to be very casual in Turkiye compared to what we were used to.

Finally , on that hectic but memorable day, we went to witness a spiritual ceremony by a company of Whirling Dervishes. It wasn’t a tourist performance but a genuine religious ritual. It lasted for 45 minutes and we were warned not to take photos or applaud. The Dervish ceremony is an important part of the Sufi Muslim religion. I’ll write more about the Dervishes in my next Turkiye blog which describes a visit to Konya where the mystical Sufi sect was born.

On our second full day in Cappadocia, we had a small lie- in as most of the rest were doing their balloon rides at sunrise. They came back full of smiles and enthusiasm although wrapped up very well as it had been very cold up in the sky. I was pleased that they had enjoyed it. Once we set off at 9.30 we drove to a traditional carpet making cooperative. One of the reasons the tour was so cheap was that places like this paid the tour company to bring its groups there. Some people were resentful and didn’t want to go in but, we had no choice but to go with the flow. There was nothing else of interest around the workshop. We were given complimentary drinks ( we had pomegranite tea) and were treated to an interesting talk and demonstration by a Belgian guy who used to be priest and a Turkish lady in traditional dress. Some of the hand -knotted carpets were absolutely beautiful. Unfortunately, at the end, salesmen attached themselves to us and tried to persuade us to buy. The attitude seems to be that all foreign tourists are rich and have money to burn. Our salesman even followed us to the toilet but had the decency to wait outside. After a while he gave up and we just had a pleasant chat with others in the group while we waited for a couple of people to make purchases. I lashed out and bought a box of Turkish Delights for our neighbours who were kindly putting our bins out and back in.

Next came a visit to an interesting ceramics museum and gallery followed by a self service lunch in a restaurant packed with tourist groups, like us. It felt a bit like we were being processed on a conveyer belt. We stopped off for a panoramic view of an abandoned Greek village spread up a picturesque hillside. In the early 1920s, when the modern state of Turkey was rising, phoenix- like out of the ashes of the Ottoman Empire, Greece and Turkey agreed to conduct a massive exchange of populations. Some people would call it “ethnic cleansing. People whose families had lived in a place for generations, suddenly had to abandon their homes for ever and go to live in another country. In some ways it was a tragedy, as in the old Ottoman days, both nationalities had lived happily together. Now Turkey is littered with haunting, abandoned villages. Presumably it’s the same in Greece. It would have been nice to explore the old streets but we only had time to clock the view and take our photos. I believe many of the old Greek dwellings are now being turned into hotels or shops.

Abdullah, our guide, left one of the best experiences to last. We went back to the village of Goreme and visited it’s outstanding open- air museum. It’s one of the largest monastic settlements in Cappadocia and contains more than than 30 Byzantine- era churches hewn out of the rock. We visited six of them including three 11th century columned churches set into a steep hillside. We saw long rock tables where the Christians ate, alters and crosses, domes and columns, and, best of all some fascinating old frescoes, painted on to the rock. We saw angels and seraphim, the Last Supper, the Crucifixion and other religious scenes all done in the flat Byzantine style of the Eastern Roman Empire. It was a bit strenuous clambering up and down steep staircases to see them but it was worth the effort, at least in my opinion. You cannot beat an ancient fresco painted over a thousand years ago. It’s not exactly the Tardis, but such paintings allow one to travel back in time.

The Open Air Museum was the grand finale of our whistle stop tour of Cappadocia. It had been a memorable if somewhat hectic visit. All the boxes on our tourist list had been ticked. I would like to go back there someday and have a more leisurely exploration of this unique region’s sights. For the time being though, it had been great. I had managed to do 3 satisfying things in 2 full-on days — 1 See some of the geological, historical and artistic highlights of one of Turkiye’s most stimulating areas. 2. Continue my on-going, long term study of mass tourism in action. It is still enthusiastically trying to kill the goose that laid the golden egg. 3. Have interesting conversations and get to know a whole bunch of fascinating people. As someone said to me on another escorted holiday – “”I’m always up for a conversation.”

The next morning it was an early start. We had the long road journey back to Antalya ahead of us. Who knows what surprises lay in store for us? As we drove off after our last Cappadocian breakfast, the sun was rising again along with a hundred or more hot air balloons. Another excited group of tourists were having their experience of a lifetime. It was a spectacular sight to drink in before we turned south and headed away from the land of fairy chimneys, troglodyte villages and frescoed rock churches. Even though Chris and I didn’t take to the air it had still been a memorable adventure. One outstanding sight still waited for us down the road, but that will have to wait for the next blog…..

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