Staycation:
(n)
a vacation spentathomeornearhome,doingenjoyableactivitiesorvisitinglocalattractions. Or what you do when you are skint. A little bit of
honesty sometimes will not go amiss. Of course there’s more to “staycation” than
finances and luckily, nowadays it’s a choice most of us can make. It’s even
been recognised as an official word by the Oxford English Dictionary. So, all those
holidays in the Wirral finally paid off.
But going back to choices for a second, I have
often been told by people born and raised here in Blighty that many years ago
low-income or working class families didn’t have many (choices, that is). Therefore,
it was always a few days away in Blackpool in the summer every year. Or a day
trip to Frinton- or Southend-on-Sea. Or whatever money allowed. Sometimes not
even that. Two or three years would go by before a trip in the old banger was
arranged hastily the night before for the morning after.
Blackpool, UK. But would you not rather be in Minorca?
But in recent years, low budget holidays abroad have
changed that. Cheap flights, all-inclusive accommodation and a more moneyed
(and money-minded) working class have contributed to the exploration of boundaries
beyond Dover. Even if this still means some stereotypical British tourists
trying to make themselves understood using the old method of SPEAKING IN A VERY
LOUD VOICE, PRONOUNCING EACH WORD VERY CAREFULLY. Mind you, at least you lot
are better than my lot. Cubans can’t even travel freely. And what to say of the
pioneers of staycation, the denizens of the old socialist bloc? Yes, some were
allowed to travel from the former Soviet Union to East Germany, for instance
(as long as they toed the party line and they were considered to be model
citizens), but the landscape in both Moscow and Berlin was coloured by the KGB
and the Stasi respectively. Bearing in mind that most eastern European socialist
countries were thought as extensions of the Kremlin’s back garden; staycation
is an appropriate term to use. So, my dear Brits, please, do carry on ASKING
WHERE THE EIFFEL TOWER IS. Clue: it’s right behind you!
This boom in short- and long-haul holidays left
the UK tourist industry depending more on tourists trying to catch a glimpse of
the Queen or castle-hopping. Suddenly Ayia Napa was far more interesting than Lyme
Regis. Until 2008.
With the financial crisis of 2008 many habits
changed. Holidays were amongst those activities that underwent a makeover. Because
when you think of it, no matter how cheap your flight to Rome is, you still
have to find accommodation. Maybe you want to incorporate car-hire, and how
about the insurance? Suddenly that hundred quid holiday turns into a thousand –pound
one. Compare that to £299 for a two-bedroom cottage in Devon that sleeps four. That’s
the annual family summer holiday sorted. Yes, of course, there’s still the
petrol to factor in and the catering, but does anyone really include petrol
costs in their vacation planning?
You don't so much make a grand entrance upon arrival in Shropshire as tip-toe into it. In fact, you are already in the West Midlands county by the time you realise. One minute you find yourself on the M40 coming from London, the next you are driving on the M42 and before you know it you’re sandwiched by country lanes. Beautiful but dangerously narrow country lanes. Tooting your horn before each bend, alerting other drivers of your presence.
I had an absolute ball in Shropshire. Having been to Wales before, three years ago, this time my wife and two children spent eight days next door. And I mean next door. One day I went to Knighton with two of my brothers-in-law to do some shopping. The first thing I noticed was the accent of the folk in the little town. After I enquired about it I was told that I was now in Wales. That was a permanent feature of my sojourn in Shropshire. We kept crossing into Hereford and Wales and back into Shropshire.
Not that it mattered. We were all looking for relaxation, pure air and fun activities. We got those three things by the bucketload. First of all, we stayed in a converted barn that ought to be featured in one of those property programmes Channel 4 is so fond of producing. The Barn at Ryecroft is a picture-perfect, idyllic place to in which to spend your holidays. This – very reasonably priced - hay and stable conversion has solid pine beams, a wood burning stove (which we lit one night, well, you had to, really, although it never got chilly), two bedrooms (with a top bunk bed for the lucky child) and plenty of attractions nearby. This is the sort of rural retreat I could see myself buying in a few years’ time when I have enough money (yeah, right, dream on, my boy).
One of the local attractions was cycling. We searched online for cheap bicycle hires and Wheely Wonderful Cycling came out on top. Easy to see why; they had the works and their rates were affordable. Located in the Petchfield Farm, Wheely offered a wide range of routes on, mostly, traffic-free roads. The first time we got our bikes we went to Leintwardine, an old village with plenty of Roman history behind. We had our lunch on the banks of the River Teme on a day when the temperature was neither warm nor cold, just perfect. The second time we ventured further afield and chanced upon Hopton Castle, which played an important role in the English Civil War, on our way to the Rocke Tea Rooms. These were highly recommended by the people who ran Wheely Wonderful Cycling. And you know what, my lovely readers and fellow bloggers? The hype was justified. I had the best coconut and blueberry cake I’ve ever had in my life.
Another attraction was the town of Ludlow. I have a soft spot for quaint British villages and towns. In Ludlow’s case, besides having souvenir and antique shops, it has also gained a reputation over the years as a gastronomic haven. I must admit at this point that Michelin ratings do nothing for me. Give me pub grub anytime. Still, the Hindu couple who run The Plaice on the high street makes one of the better kebabs I’ve ever eaten. Plus, it was put on naan bread as opposed to pitta. Kudos for that.
After four days on our own as a family at the Barn at Ryecroft we joined my wife’s brothers and mother for a big reunion to celebrate the latter’s 80th birthday. Her big eight-oh was actually back in February but this was the first time this year that he whole family came together. Eighteen people in a spacious, luscious and picturesque farm in the middle nowhere. Not even a phone signal could you get in Orchard House, a converted cow byre in Hicks Farm. There was however access to Wi-Fi, one of those modern quirks that I can’t quite figure out. There was even an indoor swimming pool which delighted children adults alike.
Like the Barn at the Ryecroft, Hicks Farm offered plenty of activities within walking distance. That word, “walking”, was key. I love going for a wander whenever I find myself in a rural area and there was no shortage of places to visit. One day we all got into our cars and drove all the way to the Long Mynd, one of Shropshire’s natural wonders. Once there we went for a short walk. Around us a sea of heather stretched well beyond our field of vision. Another time I took a stroll from the Hicks Farm down country lanes to a nearby second-hand bookshop I had seen a few days before when we had been riding our bikes. The physical effort was complemented by the smell of moth-eaten books, some of them with dog-eared, yellow, stained pages. I bought a very basic step-by-step guide to drawing (long story, no time to explain now) and after a while headed back to the farm.
If there was a downside to our holiday (and really, nothing stood out as negative) it was the length of it. I wish we had stayed longer at the Barn at Ryecroft. And the second minus was an outing we took to Kingsland to eat at a pub called The Angel. The food, although nice, was too pricey and we felt ripped off. Plus, one of the waitresses was somewhat rude.
I will never forget Shropshire, its rolling hills, its narrow lanes and rich history. I would strongly recommend all the places where we stayed to anyone wanting to get acquainted with the British countryside. Believe you me, it was a very enjoyable experience.
This is worth the airfare alone, I suddenly thought to myself.
It was almost ten o' clock at night and I was walking up the steep road that led to our apartment when a full moon threw its silver beam down the open sea and split the water into two. On one side lay the well-lit coast with its distant, diminutive houses and street lamps; the only sign of human presence. On the other side was the vastness of the sea, looking both inviting and threatening.
My first time in Italy was full of magic moments like this.
It'd been many years since I had seen a full moon lighting up the sea. It's funny how we often forget moments that we otherwise take for granted. I have lost count of how many times I sat on the seawall in my native Havana watching a full moon become a morning sun.
My introduction to Ravello, and Italy by default, had taken place a few days before that magic moment and it was full of surprises, too. We flew to Naples from Heathrow via Milan, one of the world's "fashion capitals". We'd already arranged a car hire in London and after picking up our motor we headed off to the Amalfi coast straight away.
As soon as we left the A3 motorway near Salerno we were blown straight away by the landscape. Perilous as it was, driving up the narrow, winding roads, we couldn't stop marvelling at the azure colour of the sea and the elegant gardens and villas.
If truth be told I must admit that on that first encounter I was more focused on the road than the greenery around us. I know it's not good to generalise but if that first experience was anything to judge by, my conclusion was at the time that Italian drivers were not very patient. Or at least many weren't. Being behind the wheel in a foreign territory to which I had just been introduced, I was being cautious and travelling at 20 or 30 kilometres per hour and as a consequence I'd acquired an unwanted and rather restless "tail". Well, you can imagine the chorus of horns being tooted in unison and the obscenities screamed at me in Italian, when my fellow drivers finally overtook me. Swearing that eluded me completely because I couldn't speak their language.
However the linguistic element became one of the salient aspects of my holidays. Readers and followers of this blog know about my passion for languages. So, how could I pass up the chance of learning a few words in a lexicon that is so close to my native Spanish? My wife bought a phrasebook before leaving London and every morning I made it my task to learn a few terms that I later on used with the locals. I hardly had any communication problems and when the need arose I defaulted to Spanish but with an Argentinian lilt. It's a well-known fact that many Italians migrated to the South American nation at the turn of the 20th century and Argentinian Spanish (as well as the Uruguayan variant) sounds a lot like Italian. Some words still threw me off, though. "Burro" in Italian translates as "butter", whereas to us, Spanish speakers, a "burro" is a "donkey". So in Hispanoamerica we ride it and in Italy they spread it on their toast. Bonkers. Languages are.
What led us to Italy was the wedding of my wife's niece. And what a beautiful affair it was! From the choice of the garden where the bride and groom exchanged vows, to the terrace where the reception was held, everything was carefully planned. The latter, especially, was an occasion to remember. We were up on the roof of a villa, overlooking the charming Amalfi coast on a cloudless, starry night. Just magical.
The wedding took place the day after we arrived which left us with plenty of time to busy ourselves with a daily programme of activities. We paid a visit to the aforementioned Amalfi coast and swam in one of its crowded beaches. We also went to Positano, a nearby picturesque town, to which we travelled by ferry. The journey only took us twenty-five minutes approximately and on the way there we were able to soak up the unbelievable coastal scenery from our boat. The rest of the time was divided between beach (including the less fashionable, but very enjoyable, Minori) and a visit to Villa Cimbrone, where, incidentally, I had the best pizza I've ever had in my life. In fact the food in general was pretty good, albeit quite salty at times for my taste. At night we wandered around the piazza in Ravello, which filled up quickly with the sounds of children playing.
It's not hard to see why the Amalfi coast and places like Ravello and Sorrento became the favourite hideways of celebrities such as DH Lawrence (apparently he wrote Lady Chatterley's Lover there), Sophia Loren and Jackie Kennedy (a photo of her hung prominently on one of the walls of a nearby hotel). It also goes some way to explain the exorbitant prices that seem to be the norm in the area. Plus the hard stares from some shop owners, waiters and waitresses who size you up and decide within one fraction of a second whether you have bottomless pockets or not. There are ways, however, of having a good time without having to break the bank. Use buses and boats, instead of taxis. Even if, like me, you're driving, it's better to take public transport in order to save money on car parking costs. Leave your motor for longer and more urgent journeys.
Whenever I think back on that full moon, on the turquoise of the water and the warm evenings in the piazza, I say to myself: Just those moments were worth the airfare alone. Magic Italy, I shall be back.
I don’t often pay attention to political slogans. Sloganeering was almost a way of life in Cuba when I was growing up and it still is, so, in a way I have become inured to the standard big billboard bellowing platitudinous political messages.
However the caption ‘1Malaysia’ rings true even before you set a foot on Kuala Lumpur. Mixed with the western tourists escaping the still chilly spring days, plenty of Malays were on board of the Air Asia flight that took my family and me to KL recently. The various tonalities of their skins, their facial features and their accents hinted at diversity. Having been to that Southeastern nation before in 2008, I wasn’t surprised of this element but still it was a good reminder of what’s made Malaysia a success story in latter years.
I wouldn’t be doing KL any justice if I attempted to sum up its charms in a few hundred words. My only advice is, get on a plane and visit it. The experience of mixing with the locals, riding on the public transport and enjoying its out-of-this-world.cuisine is unique beyond description.
Whether you go to a local joint like Suzi’s Corner, where Malay, Indian and Chinese dishes are served in a mirthful atmosphere or you nip out for a quick lunch at one of the many ‘chicken and rice’ restaurants that populate the corners of KL, you’re in for a treat. As long as you’re not a fussy eater, like yours truly. My first discovery this time around came the day after we arrived when we went to the aforementioned Suzi’s and I had lychee juice. This fruit has a large single seed with an edible aril. After gulping down my juice I kept nibbling at the flesh (the staff usually leave the actual fruit at the bottom of the glass), turning the sweet, jellylike pulp around my mouth and milking it for all it was worth. Needless to say lychee juice became an accompaniment in many meals out.
Whereas two years ago we spent four or five days in Redang, an island to the east of Malaysia, this time we stayed in KL the whole time. That was partly due to the civil unrest in Thailand, a country included in our itinerary. However, rather than allowing ourselves to be browbeaten by a situation that was out of our reach, we decided to spend more time walking the city and admiring its culture and history. Yet, as parents of younger children will know, what interests adults, hardly ever holds any special significance to a member of the younger generation. So, in order to take advantage of Malaysia's rich heritage we also had to include visits to the Aquarium and the Watersports Park.
Still, we had plenty of fun in the city of the ‘muddy confluence’. That’s the meaning of Kuala Lumpur’s name and as if it was trying to prove that point on the same day that we visited the Thean Hou Temple – a building that boasts the richest features of Chinese architecture in Malaysia, according to its brochure - KL also gave us a call to prayer in a nearby mosque in one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard (in fact, the man who intoned the prayer could have given the contestants of American Idol a run for their money). Just the day before, we had gone to Brickfields, a stronghold of Indian culture, which was a short walk from KL Sentral station. Whether this cultural assemblage was swampy, I don’t know, but to a person with an inquisitive nature like me, it helped me understand better the country’s ethos, 1Malaysia.
To me markets are one of the ways of measuring a city’s beating pulse. And KL never disappoints. Whether it is a local – mainly Chinese – fruit'n'veg one like the one in Yulik, or a crafts one like the more famous Central Market, the visitor will be exposed to a wide variety of products that cater to all tastes. In Central Market’s case, this is a building that could be considered to be the equivalent of Covent Garden in London, but with lower prices. The stalls combine antiques, beautiful, hand-made local products and the usual stuff for tourists that exists in any major city.
The road infrastructure is pretty good (plenty of A-roads and flyovers that circumnavigate the city), so, moving from place to place is not that difficult. At first the sight of motorcyclists wearing their jackets back to front was puzzling, until my brother-in-law’s wife explained to me that they do it because of the dust. It’s nice to know that human beings always come up with effective solutions to turn up looking nice at work. The little experience I had with the train network was satisfactory with the staff always willing to help.
Going back to the Malaysian cuisine, I suffered a major casualty because of it. On the day we were due to return, I received a resignation letter from my nose. In it my organ of smell informed me that it’d sooner stay amongst the fragrances of spices such as turmeric, chilli and sambal than return to the vapours emanating from the factories near my house in London. Fair enough, I could see its point. My nose also had made new friends whose names betrayed the pungent roots on which much cooking in Malaysia was based: galangal and ginger. So, now, I am the Cuban in London With a Prosthetic Nose. My only hope is that I can do a Nicole Kidman and take an Oscar home with me.
For some reason I kept thinking of Cuba whenever I was downtown or in a working class area. The buildings, the people and the roads, they reminded me of my country of birth. Even the architecture was similar. Some of the edifices reminded of the famous ‘cajitas de fósforos’ (boxes of matches) that were the butt of many jokes amongst people of my age. These were Soviet-style buildings that appeared in the Cuban landscape at the tail end of the 70s and the beginning of the 80s. In KL, I saw a few. Some other areas were the total opposite. For instance, Bangsar is an affluent neighbourhood with gated houses and guarded blocks of flats.
‘I wasn’t looking for anyone, and yet I saw you’. That line was part of a song I posted a few weeks ago. The melody was written by the Argentinian pop and rock singer, Fito Páez, and on that occasion, I uploaded a version by the Brazilian performer Caetano Veloso. The refrain came to me again in Malaysia because I wasn’t looking for music and yet I came across one of the more refreshing and vibrant voices I’ve heard in recent months. Zee Avi is a Malay singer whose debut album has been playing on my stereo almost everyday since I returned from KL. A review of the album will follow soon but in the meantime I shall leave you with this charming and beautiful song. Have a great week.
(all photos by the blog author) Copyright 2010
Next Post: 'Once' (Review), to be published on Tuesday 4th May at 11:59pm (GMT)
