walking the streets with my hair down

Constructed in cement, the Monument to the Discoveries stands at the mouth of the river Tagus, in the parish of Belem, Lisbon. It is 52 metres tall and depicts a number of Portugal’s famous explorers including Vasco de Gama and Henry the Navigator. The monument is designed to resemble the prow of a ship and it marks the point from which which Vasco de Gama sailed in 1497, becoming the first person to link Europe to Asia by an ocean route when he landed at Kohzikode in Kerala, nine months later. The route travelled (round the bottom of Africa and across the Indian Ocean) was longer than a circumnavigation of the Equator.

The night before his departure, de Gama and many of the men who formed the company of his four ship fleet, spent praying in the church which was close to where the monument now stands. During the subsequent voyage two of the ships had to be scuttled because half of these unfortunates perished en route. Most of the rest contracted scurvy so it was, to coin a phrase,  a motley crew which eventually made it back to Lisbon in 1499. Nonetheless they were given a heroes’ welcome and partly in honour of de Gama’s accomplishments, the King of Portugal, Manuel the First, ordered the building of the Jeronimos Monastery on the site of the seafarers’ church. It was financed by taxes on the commerce (especially spices) from the newly discovered Orient trade route which came to form the bedrock of modern Europe’s earliest and longest lived empire.  This magnificent monastery, which weaves nautical elements into its design, is now a UNESCO world heritage site, and is one of Lisbon’s most popular attractions. Vasco De Gama is entombed within the neighbouring chapel.

As I stood on the breezy bank of the Tagus and followed Vasco de Gama’s concrete gaze out to the open sea, I imagined the trepidation he must have felt as he embarked on his uncharted journey. While my trip to Heathrow Airport and onwards to Lisbon can hardly compare with the perils of the high seas in the 15th century, it is ironic that travel has now become once more an experience pierced by uncertainty and anxiety as the necessary bureaucracy and testing regimes are undertaken, their possible outcomes casting progress into doubt at every stage of the journey.

In the teeth of ever-changing logistics clearly designed to be as off putting as possible to the would-be traveller, I have remained resolute that somehow I would depart these shores this summer, if only to symbolise to myself that the worst of the pandemic is over. Ultimately the trip was worth all the effort. But the joy of setting foot on foreign soil again also served as an unwelcome reminder that some other history-altering events will endure permanently. The ignominy of being directed to the “All other passports” queue at Lisbon airport surpassed the indignity and expense of the three requisite covid tests which were a function of this trip. While there was no actual queue at passport control on this occasion, because airports are so undersubscribed at present, it is clear that British citizens will now have to adapt to inquisition as we cross borders in Europe. I took some comfort from the fact that the official who directed us to the right place did so with some chagrin on seeing our British passports.  Partly because of our maritime history, Portugal and the UK have been allies since the Crusades and it can only be hoped that our relationship endures beyond Brexit, even if so much else has been lost.

The seafaring district of Belem is a bus ride out of central Lisbon, the “city of seven hills” which is characterised by its steep streets, trams and miradouros, a network of viewpoints which offer wonderful views and the opportunity to view the sunset or gather with friends for a drink. The city is often compared to San Francisco, and it is true that there are similarities between the two. Both boast glorious suspension bridges (if you squint at the orange Ponte de 25 April you could almost believe it was the Golden Gate), are famous for their cable cars and gradients, and share a painful  history of severe earthquakes (Lisbon was 85% destroyed in 1755). But there are an equal number of differences between the two: Lisbon’s weather is infinitely more reliable in summer (as Mark Twain famously quipped “the coldest winter I ever spent was the summer in San Francisco”), the pastel de nata (custard tarts) produced here are surely superior to any in the world, and, above all, Lisbon has a far longer history having been settled since the Neolithic era.

Nowhere is Lisbon’s past felt more keenly than in the Alfama District, a maze of cobbled streets and tiled houses nestling beneath the Castelo de Sao Jorge. This area has been occupied by traditional Portuguese families and tight knit communities for centuries. Old women, looking unsurprisingly cheerful, ply shots of the local cherry liqueur Ginjinha from little tables on the street beneath billowing laundry lines. Serpentine allies lead to secret sunlit squares. The strains of “Fado” (traditional, generally mournful,  Portuguese guitar music) drift from open windows.

Atmospheric Alfama, in common with everywhere else in the city, is an open air art gallery because of the “Azulejos” facades of most buildings. These intricately patterned, glazed ceramic tiles adorn private dwellings, churches, restaurants and even bus stations. They are offset by the more recent murals, doodles and tags which can be seen everywhere. Graffiti finds its full expression in Lisbon where it has been rebranded as “street art” and guided tours showcase its best examples. Although the repeating patterns of the azulejos continue to inspire professional street artists, the ubiquitous spray painted squiggles make some parts of the city look shabby and derelict rather than cutting edge. In fact Lisbon overall has an unkempt air, it is not manicured, there is little restoration going on and the prevailing attitude is “take it or leave it”. All of which makes for a very relaxed atmosphere, with the hectic bustle of urban counterparts largely absent. This city welcomes tourists but it knows its own mind.

Yet Lisbon’s slightly rebellious air contrasts sharply with the national attitude of the Portuguese towards the Covid secure measures in place. On the London Tube I observe that the wearing of face masks now seems to have become entirely optional and, despite it being required as a condition of carriage, in practice it is not enforced at all. Likewise in supermarkets here, face coverings are the subject of entreaty rather than mandate and many customers appear to be ignorant or bored of the whole subject. Whether or not it is advisable, it is understandable that people want to consign this wretched pandemic to history by discarding its emblems.

In Portugal however, everyone wears a face mask everywhere indoors – exemption is not a thing and I was upbraided more than once in hotels and restaurants for the poor positioning of my face covering in relation to my nose. A conversation cannot begin anywhere until appropriate cowling is in place. Given the challenges of the Portuguese language, I confess that this added a further obstacle to effective communication. Outdoors, masks are worn as bracelets, ready to be replaced on the face immediately when required. There is no digging around in your bag to find the remnant that you discarded there earlier and halfheartedly suspending it from your chin.

Despite this constant reminder of the times in which we live, Portugal provided the restorative perspective which travel always brings. Beyond Lisbon, our exploration continued in the Arrabida Natural Park, an uncommercial area South of the Tajus which provides scenic ridge walking opportunities, glorious views of Lisbon in the distance, and fine beach resorts stuffed with seafood restaurants. The Portuguese consume more fish per person than any other nation except Iceland and Japan. They can list 365 different ways to cook cod (bacalhau). Seated at a beachfront table with the day’s catch being proudly borne forth for inspection by the waiter, the words of the Portuguese national anthem never seemed more apt. This “happy land is kissed by the ocean” – and it always provides something new to discover.

Call me pedantic but the absence of a preposition in the Government’s “Stay Home” slogan has been grating on me since last March. I’ve been down a grammatical rabbit hole trying to decide if “home” is a preposition in its own right. A nine year old would be helpful to resolve this for me, because friends who are home-schooling tell me, with desperation in their voices, that advanced grammatical knowledge is now the preserve of Key Stage 2. Fronted adverbial anyone? The style of that political catchphrase is, however, probably just another example of the American influence on our language, from the same stable as “hospitalised” or, worse still, “diarised”. Admittedly there’s not much to diarise outside working hours nowadays so with luck that particular horror might fall out of usage.

The way the state communicates with the public is fascinating, and in the absence of other diversions, I’ve been reminiscing about some past propaganda crusades. One of my particular favourites is  “Protect and Survive”, the natty leaflet issued in the 1980s to advise households on preparation for nuclear war. It contained some smashing tips on equipping your fallout shelter (torch and spare batteries plus a bucket of sand should sort it) and critical advice on how to act in the immediate aftermath of the explosion. This included going round the house to “put out any small fires”, and taping up your cistern so that the water used for flushing could be preserved. I am dubious that either of these activities would have been anyone’s top priority when confronted with the aftermath of an inter-continental ballistic missile strike. But during the decade of nuclear threat, instructions for survival were our daily diet and how we rejoiced when the SALT II treaties of 1987 finally brought them to an end.

We were on a geo-political roll in the 80s, truth be told, what with the parallel emergence of AIDS.  The potentially devastating impact of this new disease was hammered home via a monolithic tombstone which clanged to the ground in TV adverts, supplemented by the Don’t Die of Ignorance leaflet which landed on the door mat of every household. Public health campaigns then and now trade reliably on fear.  Back in the day we were terrified into believing that relations with anyone who hadn’t submitted in advance a list verifying the HIV status of previous partners, was an inevitable death sentence. Who says romance is dead? Oh yes, the Department of Health.  There is a trend emerging here: when there is a public health threat, the road to hell is paved with encountering strangers.

In the grip of this deeply tedious, frightening and seemingly never ending pandemic, one thing is clear. We have a novel virus on our hands which, as soon as we think we have the answer to it, changes the question. More parallels exist with HIV. The reason that we haven’t got a vaccine for HIV is because the virus mutates so frequently that it evades the immune response. In my darker moments, this is what I fear will happen with Covid. We will go through a mass vaccination campaign only to find it needing to be placed on permanent repeat, plunging us into concurrent lockdowns. I appreciate constant mutation happens with flu viruses already, but getting ahead of the curve seems critical to success, or we risk the response to Covid being outpaced. Fair play to the vaccination effort in this country thus far, the success of which I lay at the door of the enviably titled Commander 101 Logistics and his platoon. The said brigadier’s appearance at a recent government press conference cheered me up no end. 

Despite the uplift which the vaccine roll out provides, I still can’t help wondering about the impact of Covid on the future of global travel. We might achieve a domestic fortress through vaccination and border control, but different countries will apply individual restrictions, and the open-plan travel of yore looks at risk of becoming history. It’s not good for trade if a nation closes off all its borders indefinitely, as North Korea can testify. And many countries have long relied on tourism for their economies. But perhaps in the future people will choose to prioritise health and social care above service industries, driving up demand for hospital construction workers and trained health care professionals at the expense of those employed in tourism or hospitality, thus shifting the entire economic model.

Like many Millennials, my children have travelled further and wider in their first 25 years than I did in my first 50. I was nearly 20 before I even left the country. Obviously that was partly because I had been too busy studying Protect and Survive leaflets and fending off fatal disease to trouble myself with the small matter of airports and distant lands. Even when I did eventually depart these shores it was not on a plane to Bali but on a hovercraft to Boulogne. I remember being disappointed by how similar my destination looked to Dover, so convinced was I that “abroad” was synonymous with exotic and unique. Here too there turned out to be trees and cars. But I’ve been farther afield since and know the enchantment that travel can bring. Now I look at the school children of today and ponder whether Covid will return them to the world of limited horizons which characterised my younger years. Our hubris about global travel which made us careless of associated transmission risks and has ultimately led to the situation we find ourselves in, may mean that “Stay (at) Home” proves to be the future mantra in more ways than one.

On the eve of lockdown 0.2, I went out for dinner near Tower Bridge. The low River lapped against Traitors Gate as I walked past the Tower of London. Looking down at the black water, I tried to imagine the emotions of those who arrived by barge at that entrance over the centuries. Although torture and execution were thankfully not imminent for me, I shared some of what must have been their foreboding about the future, as I contemplated the month that lay ahead.

My dining companions and I stoically endured the ever-reducing temperature on the restaurant terrace as we ate, drank and chatted face to face, clinging to this vestige of normality until the last possible moment (reliably fixed at ten o’clock ). Our table was compliant with the rule of six. When this random addition to the Covid playbook was announced, I was perplexed that it was heralded as a familiar phrase or saying which people would therefore easily recall and adhere to. “Tea for two”,  “a bunch of fives” and “nine lives”: these are numerical sayings I recognise. But the “rule of six” was a new one on me. All the same, it has rapidly become common parlance, and by Christmas I imagine we will have other new additions to our vocabulary, including, we must hope, “emergency use authorisation” and “rapid diagnostic test”. Time will tell.

Talking of Christmas, and in relation to the current lockdown being championed as a device to prevent Yuletide restrictions, I am struggling to understand why on earth that is a policy objective. If you are desperate to see your grandchildren, or visit your elderly parent in a care home, such aspirations apply as much to next Wednesday as they do to 25 December. These have been the most painful aspects of the pandemic and the ones which people would most like to remedy as soon as possible. So the focus on saving Christmas from the Covid grinch, seems decidedly out of kilter with the zeitgeist. What’s more, plenty of people actively dread Christmas for the family disharmony it can generate: deciding whose “turn” it is to be visited this year, finding yourself in charge of mass catering, packing the car for a foray up country to tick relatives off the obligations list. I should think there are as many who would welcome an excuse for anything but a “normal” Christmas, as there are those eager to replicate their turkey traditions one more time, even if “some people will die because of getting infected that day”, as we were so charmlessly reminded by a scientist recently. Moreover, there was no equivalent amount of hand wringing over enabling families to get together for Eid, observed worldwide at the end of Ramadan by almost as many people as Christmas. Muslims were simply instructed to stay at home and find different (ie digital) ways to celebrate. In practice, both those festivals lag in global popularity behind New Year, which has not been mentioned once as a potential target for preservation. If the objective of lockdown is to enable time off for good behaviour at a later date, then the young people who have sacrificed so much this year, must be prime candidates for an approved night out. 

It is a contrary world that we now occupy. Complicated rules are set for us, but in practice these seem largely subject to individual interpretation. Infringement, unless brazen, attracts no sanction. Of course that is the pragmatic approach: it can make no sense to arrest a bunch of people for playing cricket on the common if you could be spending the time catching a murderer.  But in accordance with the law, when I visited a gloriously Autumnal Hyde Park this weekend, I did so in the company of one friend. When I got there, it became apparent I might as well have been accompanied by everyone I know. The place was packed with groups of varying sizes, and with the cafes all open for take away, there was no social distancing in the queues or anywhere else. I am not judgemental of these behaviours. Covid fatigue set in long ago and people inevitably have varying levels of risk appetite. What is intolerable to someone who has lost a relative to Covid or is required to shield because of their own health or age, may be irrelevant to someone for whom this illness would be mild, who lives miles from their own family and would take reasonable steps to avoid coming into contact with someone vulnerable. That is not selfishness, it is simply human nature. We all make risk-adjusted decisions about every aspect of life from getting on an aeroplane to buying a bag of peanuts. On the whole, most folk will agree to work from home, wear face masks and wash their hands. But beyond that it is evident that free will is alive and well. We have become weary at our loss of liberty, sceptical of “the science” (which never was a homogenous entity), questioning of dodgy data, of the inconclusive evidence for how transmission occurs, how long the virus lives on surfaces, whether mink should be given the swerve (don’t get me started on why any population keeps millions of animals in tiny cages for their fur) and so on. Nobody knows the true answers to these questions and the novelty of the covid situation makes it ripe for speculation and opinion. While knowledge builds, fear of the unknown, and a genuine wish to reduce mortality, are used as tools to control behaviour.  We will play along with this so far, but the public is canny and the one thing of which it won’t be robbed is joie de vivre. Shafts of joy, small pleasures: our need for these has become amplified in the absence of bigger things to look forward to: holidays, weddings, parties. We have learned to live in the moment and our new found existentialism is the one thing no authority can take away from us. 

So I made sure I enjoyed myself on Wednesday evening and will do so again tomorrow, even if it is achieved in vanishingly small ways. Unfortunately, common sense suggests that, because lockdowns are only a temporary suppression mechanism for a virus that isn’t going anywhere, their regular deployment will become a way of life for some time. But as frustrating as this situation undoubtedly is, I am confident we will still find a way to live around it, and have some fun while doing so. Like the River, whatever the prevailing conditions, we’ll just keep rolling along.

On the Elisabeth Kubler-Ross change curve, I think I’m beyond denial, well into frustration and heartily looking forward to the  “experiment” stage, at which point, if her theory is correct, I’m going to achieve “engagement with my new situation”. At present that still seems some way off, struggling as I am to be certain what day of the week it is, particularly when bank holidays  audaciously intrude on my already fragile mental calendar. I still have sufficient orientation to know at least two of those are imminent, although, adding insult to injury, Mayday has been shifted to a Friday this year, just to compound our national confusion.

I feel guilty that with my newly available spare time,  I am falling short of the self improvement which my conscience tells me should be a function of this unexpected adjournment of normal life. But I am asking too much of myself, after all I have never had any hobbies in the traditional sense, so I can’t be too surprised that I have no greater an appetite for knitting, cake decorating or papier mache now, than I ever did. These are all worthy pursuits, and I would love to be good at any of them, but I’m not and I won’t become so however hard I try.

So I’m indulging in some other pastimes, including revelling in the new lexicon which accompanies lockdown. Social distancing. Those words are an oxymoron and they were never conjoined at any point earlier than March 2020. Now they trip off the tongue as easily as please and thank you. Self isolation, a tautology if ever there was one, is something we are now encouraged to indulge in at the first sign of a cough. Furlough. That’s not a new word, in fact it’s one I’ve always liked: it’s pleasing to say and not spelt as it sounds. But “have you been furloughed?” , must now be the most common conversation starter de nos jours. I can’t imagine anyone ever stringing that sentence together before the last four weeks.

And I’m relishing a few other things too, albeit in a straw-clutching kind of a way. In a reversal of our current human confinement, the hedgehog is emerging from hibernation around now and is surprised to find that the merciless traffic which usually encumbers his progression, has reduced to a trickle. He proceeds jauntily, prickling along his merry way, sniffing the fresh air (and it is so much fresher) and reaching hitherto un-guaranteed safety.

In equally uplifting news, celebrity culture appears to have met its long overdue demise. Starved of their diet of premieres, photo shoots and influencing opportunities, celebrity life blood has ebbed away and coverage of their existences has mercifully followed suit. The best we are offered are grainy shots of two people in jeans and face coverings, walking dogs around unprepossessing Los Angeles pavements – oh look it’s Harry and Meghan. It is levelling to observe that they seem as bored of the daily exercise opportunities in reach of their condo as we are in our own surroundings, so familiar has every blade of grass in the vicinity become.

Equally unmourned are the dreaded travel selfies which had become so prevalent they almost seemed to be the reason particular destinations were selected. Instagram friendly short breaks and the previously unflinching belief in our entitlement to fly anywhere at the drop of a hat, are now shown up in stark relief, as we realise to our chagrin, that our pilgrimages have contributed to the transmission of pestilence across the globe. And yes I love travel too, but as we face what looks to be a prolonged period of confinement within our own borders, I hope we will use the opportunity to arrive at a more sustainable and selfless approach to global exploration.

Yet in some ways, how swiftly humankind has adapted to our unwelcome quarantine. I am frankly astonished – and impressed – at the overall level of national compliance, particularly among the young. Of course they are not invincible, but they are at  relatively low risk from this plague, and they are young for goodness sake: you might expect, given the history of youth activism, to find them marching with placards somewhere demanding their liberation. The rude snatching away of their educations, budding relationships, end of term fun, tentative first jobs, parties, sports and general youthful milling about, has precipitated no discernible reaction, at least at a collective level. There is the odd mention of a “corona party”, hastily dispersed, or minor infractions in parks. But on the whole it would seem that the younger generation have retreated to their rooms, laptops in hand, to persist with the virtual existences many of them were enjoying before lockdown ever began. Are they really that concerned to protect their grandparents? If so, all credit to them, and to us for raising a law-abiding and altruistic generation. I look back and query whether my own self centred teenage self would have behaved like that in the 1980s. Of course the vast majority of people recognise the imperative of the greater good, but I do wonder how widespread is an occasional  stirring of internal rebellion , even if  it is a feeling we would never act upon. Does anybody else long “to slip the surly bonds of Earth and dance the skies on laughter silvered wings?”

Freedom will come, I tell myself, it will happen. But how soon? 

 

All my life I’ve feared being sent to the slammer for a crime I didn’t commit. I’m fairly certain this stems from my childhood reading of “Papillon”, Henri Charriere’s autobiographical account of his incarceration and ultimate escape from a prison in French Guyana following his wrongful conviction for  murder.

During his fourteen year capture, Charriere endured frequent and prolonged spells of silent solitary confinement as well as very harsh conditions, until he finally  mounted a daring escape involving drifting in the ocean for several days using a  sack of coconuts as a floatation device –  before ultimately gaining  freedom, followed by celebrity. 

In the present,  over the past two weeks,  my enduring nightmare has suddenly become a reality. Even more incredibly, I find myself participating in this detention alongside more or less the entire population of the world.

Of course we are not locked up in the physical sense that Charriere was. He did not have access to all our first world comforts, and he was the victim of extreme personal injustice and appalling mistreatment. But  the effect of this protective custody upon our mental health is surely not dissimilar. Our liberty is severely curtailed. We are “in the hole” to coin  prison jargon, allowed out briefly to forage for supplies or for the stipulated exercise period. We are permitted only to come into physical contact with our own family members, and required to demarcate the interval between ourselves and all others. We are on “23 hour lock-up”.

Meanwhile, over our collective heads dangles a potential death sentence: the outcome Charriere knew would follow an unsuccessful attempt at escape .  Even if our individual  level of risk may be low, we all know someone who is over 70 or physically vulnerable or both – and we are also acutely conscious that sometimes the horse with the long odds is the one that carries the day at the racecourse. This knowledge is not the recipe for a good night’s sleep.

How has this happened? The Napoleonic saying that when France coughs, the whole world catches a cold, has been relocated to China, where wild animals have become a staple of rural farming, and cross contamination has resulted in animal to human transmission. Time will tell if the Wuhan wet market is the true source of the coronavirus, but in anybody’s books, the human, the koala and the bat are not natural bedfellows, and no good will come of their close proximity.

But, while the world’s population may be sharing in the same experience, individual reactions to it will not be uniform. Denial would be a welcome option for me, but I am far too practical for that. I was in shock for at least the first seven days as I scrabbled hopelessly for the tiniest chink of light in  my endless perusal of news media and other clickbait, and failed to find any succour at all.

Then it gradually dawned upon me, that I had found a mechanism for some  solace  during a previous stint in a sort of solitary confinement: writing about it.  Three years ago, I originally devised this blog as a way to record my travels and keep in touch with home during a six month career break when I travelled, mostly on my own, in India and Europe. Today, forbidden as I am even to tarry in the branch of the Co-Op which is one hundred yards from my house, I find it hard  to envisage myself flying to Delhi and exploring the country  unaccompanied, or staring up at the looming north face of the Eiger.  And yet, drawing on the emotions I experienced back then,  is helping me rationalise this current indeterminate sentence.

First of all, I remember and relish the different person I become when I am not “busy” all of the time. In fact I am much busier now than I was when travelling, because I am working at home five days out of seven, but how different it is to engage with office matters from the kitchen table and with an absence of face to face contact. Working days are now defined by an air of detachment and surreality.  Nothing has the same sense of  urgency –  and my work persona is incomplete: I am not wearing the right clothes, benefitting from a conversation in the margins of a meeting,  or fielding random questions from my colleagues. Without the micro features which typify office life, the pace decelerates and I meander along languidly, my usual brisk approach to work slackened off and my heart rate slowed.

Second of all, the calendar suddenly and rudely has no meaning. I glance at June and my only thought is: where will the world be by then? I make no effort to organise weekend social events, catch ups after work, holidays and trips. There is no point in, nor capability for, forward planning. Especially at the weekend, I wake up and do not know what the day ahead will bring.  I used to do that regularly in India and my muscle memory reminds me that the feeling is  both liberating and terrifying.

And thirdly, I remind myself – recalling  filthy Varanasi, manicured Switzerland and crazy Mumbai: that whatever our surroundings, ultimately there is more that unites we humans than divides us. The existential dread I feel right now, I can guarantee is being replicated among humans across the world. 

So, I hope,  is the joy which can still be found in small things despite the uncertainty which lies ahead: chaffinches on the bird feeder,  budding roses, a sunny day. And while I yearn to escape this unjustified cradling, hope is always the last thing to go – so I cling to the belief that one day,  surely this miscarriage of justice will be overturned and our metaphorical  coconut sacks will  transport us  from this penal colony, once more to freedom.

There’s no hard evidence that Emily Bronte used Top Withens as the inspiration for Wuthering Heights, but by the time I’ve damply traversed three miles of Haworth Moor to reach the ruined farmhouse of that name, which is hovered over by a solitary tree, I’m determined to believe that she did. It’s not difficult to see why the Brontes’ creativity was stirred by the dramatically desolate landscape which I’ve been visiting this week. Emily’s poem of the blog’s title describes how this natural setting was responsible for “man’s spirit away from his drear dungeon sending” and anyone in search of escape from daily life could not fail to be entranced by the expansive moorland with its combination of distinctively scented bracken and heather, dry-stone walling, foxgloves and rose bay willow-herb. No matter what the weather, to be on the Yorkshire moors is to experience some of the world’s most unique scenery so it’s hardly surprising that people flock here from all over: such is the attraction of the area to literary tourists that many of the local signposts give directions in both English and Japanese characters. But on this particularly dreich and atmospheric day, it is almost completely deserted.

The enduring legacy of books and poetry produced by the Bronte sisters, might have provided a crumb of comfort to their otherwise unfortunate father, Patrick Bronte, who was pre-deceased by all six of his children and his wife. He and his family dwelt in Haworth and the details of their existence have been well documented elsewhere. It remains a place of pilgrimage for many thousands every year so the lack of commercialisation of both the Parsonage where they lived and the village itself, is all the more remarkable. Visiting their famous home, it is striking how the orderly preservation of the rooms occupied by Patrick, Charlotte, Emily and Anne (along with their maid Tabby), is at odds with the way that the living space of the family’s black sheep Branwell, is depicted. Branwell was a louche rake who disrupted the Brontes’ existence with his alcoholism, philandering and generally messy lifestyle. Charlotte asked rhetorically in 1848 “has not every household its trial?” and I suppose it is comforting to think that dysfunction played a part even in this unusually gifted family. I’ll confess now that despite its incredible creativity and characterisation, I’ve never found Wuthering Heights an easy read, but Jane Eyre is a feminist heroine for all times. In an era when it is alarming that image and “celebrity” seem to be more important to young women than ever, we cannot do without a literary role model who knew herself to be plain but cared not. Because she was talented and sassy too, and those were the things which defined her.

Life in Yorkshire is certainly a lot less brutish now than it was in the era of the Brontes. But God’s own county can still feel like another country to a die-hard Southerner like me. That is not to say the indigenous folk are unfriendly: they are no more or less so than people anywhere else – although the habit of being chatted to at the supermarket check- out is something which does seem intrinsically Northern. But one characteristic is shared between them: they are Yorkshire. My sister has happily lived and worked here for nearly thirty years but she can still occasionally find herself regarded as an “offcumden”, an ugly word used by locals to describe someone not born in this place. Accent and dialect are significant elements of identity here, which makes the grockles easy to single out. On the train between London and Leeds, there’s an almost audible hiss when we pass beside the Emirates stadium. A similar collective response is generated, though this time with hilarity, when the train announcer (who I deduce to be European, probably German) pronounces Doncaster just as I would, with a long ah sound on the second syllable.   “Mam” pipes up the child at the table behind me, every time he wants his mother’s attention. She plies him with a variety of entertainments, many of which are edible and include what she refers to as a “barm”. My decades spent watching Coronation Street pay off, for I know this to be a Manchester term for a roll (albeit from the wrong side of the Pennines from a Yorkshire perspective). Where else are moody types referred to as “mardy”? While “now then” is a phrase used to  gain attention elsewhere; here it means “hello”.  And let’s not even get started on what time of day “dinner” is eaten in this part of the country. A glossary or phrase book would be useful for the occasional visitor to Yorkshire, but these linguistic differences make it feel all the more as if I’ve gone on a foreign holiday when I visit. 

In my experience, such a strong regional identity is not replicated in many other parts of the UK, and I am examining my conscience as to why I have never felt the urge to go about saying “I am Wandsworth”. It’s just not the way we do things in the South, but on reflection, how comforting must such a tangible sense of belonging be, and it doesn’t seem to have been diluted by the increasingly cosmopolitan nature of Yorkshire’s cities.   Progression is embraced too, especially where culture and architecture is concerned. There are some wonderful conversions of old industrial buildings, for example at Salts Mill in Saltaire near Bradford, now an arts and restaurant complex which displays many originals from its local artist David Hockney. One of Yorkshire’s many appeals to me is this successful integration of  tradition and advancement. But above all, being here makes me yearn to live somewhere where driving out of the city for 45 minutes (on a good day) didn’t bring me to Heston service station, but deposited me in the fresh air, with miles of glorious open country as far as the eye can see and the promise of Yorkshire tea when I get back to base.

 

“Cruise ships” bemoans the taxi driver as we look down on Gruz, Dubrovnik’s main port, from the vantage of the cable-stayed bridge which elegantly spans the Adriatic here, “the tragedy of tourism”. High above the city, driving over it on the way to an island ferry, I wonder what he means: can the ships have that negative an impact on what is after all a UNESCO World Heritage site? Sadly, a few days later when I return to the city to stay and explore it, his meaning becomes all too clear.

I’ve never been on a cruise so I cannot attest to the attraction of doing so: apart from not liking boats much, there is a high risk I would spend the entire time aboard eating, and I do not know how to play shuffleboard. But they must have something going for them because 1.8 million people go on a cruise annually: almost double the number who go on skiing holidays. Perhaps part of the appeal, in theory at least, is that a cruise gives you access to many different destinations, all in the same holiday. What’s more, you don’t have to negotiate an airport or sit on a plane, and I can quite see the benefits of that, having nearly reached saturation point with those activities. So why are cruises a favourite target for general sneering? The stereotype of hordes of overweight couples in white shorts and deck shoes clogging up narrow streets as they invade popular destinations, blissfully unaware of other people as they swarm behind their pennant-bearing group leader, probably has a lot to answer for.  As do reports of regular norovirus outbreaks. But rather than focus criticism on the souls who are just trying to enjoy their holiday, surely the real irony of cruising is that while it is designed to make the world accessible to more people, it has ended up being hoist by its own petard. Come to Dubrovnik and you’ll see what I mean.

The Old City of Dubrovnik is a beautiful, historic place, in an unrivalled setting surrounded by hills and the shimmering sea. All the buildings are cut from white limestone and many have dark green shutters. It is famously encircled by massive stone walls, twenty feet thick in places, which run to a distance of two kilometres – all of which can be walked. But if you go there at any time of year when the weather might be decent, that is not a walk you will undertake alone. My overriding emotion while I am in Dubrovnik is the same one that I experienced at the Taj Mahal : this is a stunning place, but I wish I could witness it without the crowds.  I may risk accusations of travel snobbery, and of course it is a sign of progress that the world’s wonders can be seen by many more people than used to be possible. But it is hard to resist the conclusion that the magic of places like this is seriously compromised by the lack of controls on access to them. On some days throughout the summer, six cruise ships can occupy Gruz, disgorging up to 2500 passengers each, which results in all the roads into Dubrovnik Old Town becoming clogged up as they herd into town by bus and taxi. Not only do sheer numbers make famous sights too crowded to experience comfortably, but they also dilute the overall authenticity of a place. In Dubrovnik many of its original shops and businesses, have gladly turned to face the tourists for economic reasons, resulting in a proliferation of souvenir shops, overpriced set menus and so on. Here this is exacerbated by the city’s status as a location for Game of Thrones. I am as excited as anyone to see where Cerce’s walk of atonement was filmed (at the Jesuit steps shown below), where Joffrey met his demise and the various places that double as Kings Landing. But the proliferation of tours dedicated to the show is further evidence of how this hapless city has become a victim of its own success. And it’s not as if the locals haven’t noticed: the incumbent population of the Old Town has dropped from 5000 five years ago to 1500 now, as many people have sold their homes for conversion to tourist apartments, or let them out through Airbnb. This so-called pearl of the Adriatic is at serious risk of becoming the grit of the Adriatic if better tourism management isn’t implemented urgently.

Like anyone else, I can see beyond the hordes to the essence of this lovely place and if I came here at five in the morning, I am sure I would be entranced by it. It’s certainly possible to escape into the narrow alleys and feel more connected. But on an afternoon in early July, the main drags feel a bit like being in a theme park, and all I want to do is escape back to Croatia’s peaceful offshore islands.

Pondering on those feelings further, and reflecting on the aspects of travelling I am enjoying the most,  I’ve concluded that the real thrills can be found in the same place they have always been: exactly where you didn’t expect to find them. Isn’t it always the case that the famous sight you’ve looked forward to seeing  proves smaller than you anticipated or, as occurs frequently in my experience, is closed or covered in scaffolding when you finally reach it (virtually the whole of Rome was behind hoardings the last time I went). No: the kick is really in what you discover for yourself: the unspoilt beach you happen upon, the lake hidden in the hills, the family-run taverna where you sit on the terrace in the sun, the spontaneous conversation with a local, the snake at the side of the path (a Croatian black adder slithered from virtually under my feet when hiking in the hills one day here), the ruined monastery on a hilltop harbouring a little family of goats. For me, those are the things of which memories are made, which is why you won’t catch me on a cruise ship any time soon.

Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy a bit of luxury as much as the next person. But recently I’ve started to question whether relatively upscale hotels and resorts represent value for money.  When I stay in such places, I often think that the price encompasses lots of services I don’t access or particularly need, like spas, gyms, several restaurants, opulent reception areas and, above all, countless staff.  Can it really be necessary for one person to take my order for breakfast eggs, another to convey those eggs to me and a third to ask repeatedly if everything is to my satisfaction?! In India, the disarray of life beyond the walls evinced a yearning for sanctuary, so the places I stayed in while I was there, acted as a retreat, somewhere to gather courage for the next sortie and experience some Western comforts. In Europe on the other hand, my spine doesn’t generally need much stiffening (unless anyone wants to talk to me about Brexit). So for this trip to Croatia I am road-testing an approach which, while many people have been doing it instinctively for years I suspect, is newly dubbed by the industry as “responsible travel”.  The principle is to maximise the benefit and minimise the harm involved in tourism, with the emphasis on local providers and grassroot initiatives.

While I agree with Gandhi’s sentiment that “increase of material comforts it may be generally laid down, does not in any way whatsoever conduce to moral growth” , I am not yet sufficiently evolved in the eco department to be spinning my own clothes and eating bitter gourd with a hand-made utensil. So I must confess that I did fly here, which is deeply un-green, and I remain reluctant to sacrifice wi-fi or quality plumbing. But then again, Rome wasn’t built in a day:  for this tour at least, I am staying in family run guest houses and B&Bs.

To the town of Gruda in Konalve, a forested area south of Dubrovnik, very close to the border with Montenegro and Bosnia Hercegovina where my lodgings are a room in the house of Mico and Katya, parts of which date back to the early 1400s. The bedroom has a sloping ceiling on both sides which means I am bent double much of the time, and in order to turn round in the “bathroom” (basically a loo and shower shoehorned behind a sliding door), it is necessary to perform a three-point turn beginning with a reverse back into the bedroom. But never mind: after all, I am asleep for most of the time I spend in here, and there is a lovely little balcony on which to sit and enjoy the sun. The pay-off comes with the authenticity of the experience, and especially the opportunity to hear the proprietors’ life story. A prosperous wine-making family before the break-up of Yugoslavia, they suffered tragedy when Gruda was occupied (and burned) during the Croatian war of independence in 1991/92. Mico’s brother and father both died during the war, and afterwards enthusiasm for the family business had understandably dwindled. A guest house was eventually developed in its place when the tourists began to return. But echoes of the past are ever-present: the 97 year old matriarch of the family lives on, and the basement of the house has been converted into a little museum which preserves the old wine-making equipment, many family photos and other artefacts.

Inevitably, the conflict touched and irreparably altered the lives of many Croatians and its legacy is evident in the (very sympathetic) reconstruction visible everywhere and the tales of the survivors. “The war took the best years of my life” says the taxi driver reflectively, “five years fighting, five years rebuilding. But…” he continues resiliently “…we are happy again now”.

Croatians on the whole exude both happiness and pride in their nation’s independent status, added to which the countryside around them is very beautiful. While not excessively manicured like Switzerland, it gives off an air of great neatness, and everywhere is sparkling clean and cared for. The country stretches like a long index finger down the Dalmatian coast, off which at least 1000 cypress and pine-covered islands lie in the glittering turquoise seas which lap against the craggy bluffs.

Of the Dalmatian islands, Hvar and Korcula are the biggest and most visited. Korcula – my second destination – where the responsible dwelling on offer is slightly more spacious and has the blissful (if dubious from a green credential perspective), addition of air-conditioning – is a simply glorious spot, particularly its little capital, Korcula town. This wonder could have come from the imagination of Walt Disney: its red roofs rise towards the cathedral church bell tower in perfect formation, and it is surrounded by fortified walls, interspersed with turrets. There can be few better spots in which to enjoy a glass of the local white wine (splendidly titled Grk) while staring out to sea, and it is not hard to see how its forefathers were inspired to exploration: Marco Polo is claimed to have been born here, though that is heavily disputed by Venetians.

The sense of calm I feel in Korcula is slightly diminished when I have to board a catamaran to travel to Mjlet,  Croatia’s greenest island, which is designated a National Park because of its two stunning salt lakes and forests. I’ve never liked sailing as I’m inherently averse to any setting from which you cannot depart of your own volition, but boat is the most common form of travel in this part of the world for obvious reasons. The catamaran makes me feel sick but mercifully the journey is short and we disembark at Mjlet within thirty minutes. It is well worth the effort: this is an island of Arcadian beauty, where sylvan paths wind beside the lakes and everyone is at ease with themselves. It is a captivating place to while away a few days hiking, cycling or swimming in the crystal clear, aquamarine waters.

As for the ecological element of the accommodation on Mljet, that seems to consist of the cardio benefits to me of walking the 81 concrete steps up to the room – but the view across the bay at sunset more than makes up for it. And better still: breakfast is served in the restaurant adjoining the rooms which is run by the same family, and nobody checks if I’m happy with the quality of my eggs. Responsible travel: bring it on.

Next time: Dubrovnik, Pearl of the Adriatic

 

 

 

 

 

 

World Book Day, on which young children attend school dressed up as their favourite characters, didn’t exist when I was a girl, but if it had, I would definitely have wanted to go as Heidi. The eponymous heroine of Johanna Spyri’s book (published in 1888 but still box fresh today), was one of my early literary idols. How I envied her plaits, her wardrobe of dirndl skirts and embroidered pinafores, her innocent friendship with Peter the goat-herd, and their bucolic existence in the Swiss Alps. I’ve been trying to get back to my inner Heidi for decades and this week I’ve finally achieved it. 

To Wengen, in the Bernese Oberland,  a charming mountain village which, among numerous other selling points, is totally car-free. This makes it relatively inaccessible to coach loads of tourists – although people still visit in large numbers, using the only mode of transport available:  the train. The clichés about Switzerland invariably include that the trains always run on time: and indeed they do, although “run” is not really the right word as they can be very slow-moving, some are on single gauge,  time can be eaten up standing in stations awaiting the appointed second of departure and the passenger has to make frequent changes to get anywhere, all of which pretty much doubles the potential length of any journey. Nonetheless, the fairy tale landscape out of the window, which becomes more picturesque with every passing halt, is more than sufficient compensation.

Other than its stunning situation and the crisp mountain air, the first thing to strike you about Wengen is how incredibly manicured it is.  Vegetables growing in the spotless chalet gardens, do so in serried ranks with not a lettuce out of line. Logs are neatly stacked up outside dwellings having been chopped to the requisite 33cm length. And even the graves in the cemetery are a uniform size and bedecked with identical begonias.

Being a resident of Switzerland brings with it little scope for individuality. “Regeln sind regeln” as they say here: rules are rules. There are detailed protocols in place about all municipal matters, with the disposal of household waste at the top of the list. “The Swiss are very protective about their rubbish”  the Canadian woman who manages the apartment says to me ruefully “they leave their houses open, yet lock up their garbage”. She’s right: to dispose of your bin bag requires a key to unlock a sliding door which then reveals a padlocked dustbin that demands a different key to open it, all of which is dependent on you having lobbed your rubbish into the correct type of – tax paid – bag in the first place. No black bin liners permitted here. And that’s before you even get started on the recycling. Virtually the only motorised vehicle you’ll see in Wengen is the ubiquitous street-cleaning machine which purrs up and down the roads. But you can’t fault the outcome: every where you go is immaculate and you could confidently eat your dinner off any pavement.

In fact my overriding impression of Switzerland is of a country as diametrically opposed to India as it is possible to imagine. Its famous non-interference policy (the Swiss have not been at war since 1505) extends into the characteristics of the individual: the people are in general reserved and the sometimes intrusive warmth and helpfulness of the average Indian will take some time to reveal itself here. Interestingly, cows are equally prominent in both nations, but here they are corralled in meadows, with cow bells round their necks and are certainly not sacred: veal features extensively on all restaurant menus.  The whole country is characterised by a total absence of chaos: the Swiss veneration of the environment, the extreme levels of efficiency and the disciplined transport system all contribute to an overriding sense of national regularity. The rebel in me has been occasionally tempted to subvert this by kicking a Coke tin down the road, or some other minor transgression, just to see what reaction it would provoke. But I resist, for the human is compliant here, apparently constrained by the knowledge of his or her insignificance in comparison to the landscape.

Just as the Himalayas uplifted me in India, here the snow-capped Alps are having the same effect. Forming a massive wall overlooking Wengen are the Jungfrau, Monch and their malevolent neighbour, the  Eiger. The infamous North Face of the Eiger is best viewed from Kleine Scheidegg, a curious spot at 2000m elevation which is essentially a train station surrounded by  souvenir shops and restaurants. The zoo-like atmosphere of this place  (it is the junction for the hordes of trippers travelling to the “top of Europe”- Jungfraujoch- by train) with all its commercial trappings of modern tourism and comfort, make for a bizarre contrast to the jagged death trap of rock and ice which soars to a height of 6000 feet a few hundred metres away. At least 65 people have died there since 1935, a number simply freezing to death while bivouacking during the ascent, others perishing as they hung from ropes unable to move in either direction. The sheer face which looms greyly upward, is a sobering reminder of the power of Nature, and of man’s unending quest to try to overcome her.

 

The best way to reach Kleine Scheidegg is on foot via the panoramic walk from the Wengen to Mannlichen cable car stop. The ride up to Mannlichen is a vertigo-inducing experience as you seemingly  hang above a 3000ft valley from a wire suspended in space. But once on the tops, the path provides a breathtaking vista of the Jungfrau massif as it winds through vibrant flower-filled pastures.

Frankly, this must be among the world’s most beautiful scenery and it is impossible to feel anything but contentment when you witness it. I notice that just as the tumult and madness of India seemed to reflect my mental state when I arrived there, a sense of order has descended on me here which is reinforced and cemented by the surroundings. Nearly four months on, the ball of wool that was my mind when I started travelling, has been teased out to form neat skeins, and although the odd stitch is still dropped, things are being gradually knitted into a pattern. Of course, getting the tension right is the key to successful knitting, and achieving a mind-set which is neither too taut nor too floppy is an ongoing challenge. But the future is unforeseen and for now it is sufficient to watch the day, and do nothing but marvel at this spellbinding landscape.

Footnote: I am continuing the habit I developed in India of plundering the cultural offerings of my hosts. From the book collection in the apartment,  I’ve been greatly enjoying reading The Road Home by Rose Tremain, a study of separation and displacement which follows, topically although it was written in 2008, the experiences of an East European seeking work and a new life in London. It’s a jaunty, humourous read with a serious message: I can recommend it.

 

 

Subtitle: Abroad Thoughts From Home

I leave Delhi early in the morning, with the scent of jasmine and the sound of peacocks, lingering in my senses. A long day’s travelling lies ahead but I anticipate it with some excitement: after all, I am homeward bound.

An ocean of thinking time is available so inevitably I spend some of the return journey reflecting on my recent voyage. One of the things I wanted to test when I set out was the impact of unstructured time, something I haven’t had very much of for the last thirty years. I’ve long wondered whether the hubbub of “busy lives” crowds out space for contemplation:  there is a Buddhist saying that you cannot see your reflection in running water, only still. Perhaps it makes us feel more significant when our days and weeks are pre-programmed and during some phases of life, especially when you’re tied to the routine of small children, a sense of constrained time is unavoidable. But does “busy-ness” – which is now invariably worn as a 21st century badge of honour – really provide the best conditions for we humans to give the most favourable account  of ourselves?

For the past couple of months, liberation from the slavery of the calendar has been a revelation to me. Instead of spending time anticipating what’s coming, I’ve been existing wholly in the moment. Many days I’ve woken up not knowing what’s going to happen for the next 24 hours. At best I’ve had a flight, train or hotel booked, but often with very little idea of what I’m going to do when I get wherever I am headed.  And on other days I’ve not had a plan at all, particularly when I’ve been “resting” in Delhi between forays. Consequently it’s been possible to let a conversation run its natural course for 3 or 4 hours rather than have to curtail it because I’m on to the next thing. What might previously have been a snatched word  – or even a text message – about today’s meals has morphed into an unexpected opportunity to find out how an Indian cook gets to learn French cuisine, how many children he’s got, what looks good at the market today and the meaning of Hindu festivals. And it’s been a treat to walk in the park for as long as I want, stand and watch eagles fly above my head, spend ages taking a photograph or read my book for two hours uninterrupted. 

All the same, there’s no denying that any trip to India, particularly for solo travellers, is going to bring its share of frustrations. Yes I’ve been lonely at times, restless and indecisive, far too hot (often!) and fed up at being unable to progress from A to B outside without hearing “Taxi Madam?” or be loudly honked at. Not having the correct change has been a constant anxiety (for anyone travelling to India I have two words of advice: small notes), and  I have been driven to the edge of reason by the world of pain which is the Indian railways website www.IRCTC.co.in (please never follow this link).

It’s easy for any visitor to India to lose sympathy with the litter and filth – and wonder why the scrupulous approach all Indians take to personal hygiene and grooming (even the unfortunate people who sleep beside the railway line can invariably be seen in the mornings performing ablutions with bucket and jug) is so mis-aligned with the (lack of) respect many display for their surroundings. I’ve been tempted to throttle the next person who asks me if I would like “to make a little detour to visit his uncle’s/cousin’s/father’s pashmina/shoe/handicraft shop” and I’ve certainly felt intense frustration at attitudes towards women, especially in the North,  their invisibility, lack of equal opportunity, and general condemnation, particularly at the lower levels of society, to a life of subordination.  But regardless of these travails, finding ways to adjust to the demands of Indian life, has all been part of the experience. I’ve had to mine the depths of my resilience, perfect the art of non-engagement when being offered unwanted services (wear dark glasses and keep your mouth shut: even “no” to a persistent hawker is received as an indication of willingness to negotiate) and despite the innate resistance of any Britisher to such a concept, I eventually began to develop the art of haggling.

Along the way numerous wonders have captivated me both man-made – Humayun’s tomb, Fatehpur Sikri, the incomparable Gateway of India, Marine Drive, the forts of Rajasthan and of course the Taj Mahal, – and natural – tigers in the wild, colourful and crazy birds, playful monkeys inches away, the beautiful, ever-smiling children of the Himalayas in their hand-embroidered clothes – and I’ve experienced many moments of startling insight and joy. I’ve eaten some fantastic meals – there is nowhere in the world better to be a vegetarian, the Gujarati thalis cannot be surpassed and I’m now mad about paneer masala, lassi, all forms of Indian chai, moong daal and various other dishes (none of which taste in their native country much like what you get in an Indian restaurant in the UK). But above all I’ve stumbled into a heady love affair with the incredible country which is India, and its wonderfully warm, humorous, hospitable, forgiving, ever-helpful, gracious, forward-looking people. The photo below sums Indians up for me (taken through a taxi window so not a work of art): a family of four squashed together on a motorbike, careering through the streets. It illustrates the sanctity of family – family is everything to Indians – their legendary disregard for health and safety (only one helmet and that to protect the adult male!) but also the fundamental determination and joie de vivre which you observe everywhere in the country, despite the privations many of its people suffer relative to us.

London is and will remain my favourite place in the world but when I finally get here, it has never looked so anaemic after the daily rainbow which is India and everything seems so regimented, so evolved, by comparison. There is not a ruminant in sight on or beside the road as we drive back from the airport and all dogs are on leads. We glide to a civilised halt at pedestrian crossings, remain steadfastly in our lane and use the horn not once. Thankfully the sky has decided to be blue for my return, but there’s a definite nip in the air. And it seems inconceivable that the coy yellow sphere in the sky, which occasionally peeps out feebly from behind the clouds to slightly increase the air temperature, can possibly be the same incandescent ball of searing fire which dominates every aspect of existence on the sub-continent. Yes, I’m back home. But India: I’m sure going to miss you.

On reflection, I’m so glad I waited 50 years to make this trip, because I wouldn’t have had the same experience if I’d done it younger. When I was a girl, and used to moan to my mother about yet another family holiday in a boarding house in Wales while my friends jetted off to (then unimaginably glamorous) destinations like Majorca, she used to say to me “If you’ve got it all at fourteen dear, what’s left at forty?”

And you know what: turns out she was right.

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Footnote #1: This is the end of A Passage from India but I am planning more adventures in the next few months so there may be further, less regular blogs. Watch this space and thank you for sharing in my self-indulgence by reading it up to now.

Footnote#2: A few blog followers have asked what I read while I was away. Luggage restrictions meant I couldn’t carry all the books I was kindly given before I left: I am looking forward to reading those now I’m back.

The list below excludes my trusty guide books:

Taken with me

City of Djinns William Dalrymple, describing his own year in Delhi

A Fine Balance Rohinton Mistry: an epic masterpiece, which hugely enhanced my visit

The God of Small Things Arundhati Roy, set in Kerala which is top of my must-visit list for my next trip to India

This Bloody Project Graeme Macrae Burnett: real crime, very Scottish: an antidote to Indian literature

 Snaffled from, and returned to, the bookshelves in Delhi

View from the Foothills Chris Mullin, for about the tenth time, but you can’t go wrong

The Spy who came in from the Cold John Le Carre: third attempt, still not sure I get it

Behind Closed Doors Hugo Vickers (about Wallis Simpson and the Duke of Windsor)

Gordon Brown by Tom Bower

A Boy’s Own Story Edmund White (a sort of gay Catcher in the Rye: excellent)

In the Fold Rachel Cusk

Diana: Her True Story Andrew Morton (what an extraordinary book this is, both the content and the fact it was ever written and published)

The Roots of Radical Islam Gilles Kepel

Common Purpose Justin Trudeau

The Spin Doctor’s Diary, inside No 10 with new Labour Lance Price: subject matter interest 8/10, execution 1/10

and

Found in a hotel

The Secret life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd: terrible (both the book and the hotel)

And finally, my trip was made possible by my family, my workplace, many friends who provided practical and moral support, and especially by AG and DLS in Delhi: thank you all very much.