Mars and beyond

I well recall the excitement caused when Sputnik was first launched. Our poor colonial cousins were extremely put out since up to that point they had only succeeded in exploding old V2 rockets on the launch pad. The Russian device by contrast was an entirely new type of rocket launcher and pretty sophisticated too it seemed to us at the time.

Well of course we all know where that all led - a terrible dead end in the development of space travel. Multi stage rockets were never the way forward but it enabled the Americans to bankrupt the Russians so that was all very well.

And now I see commercial companies are offering to put you into space for just a few million pounds. Well really! Rather like sex, if you have to pay for it you don't deserve it has always been my motto regarding exotic travel. Her Majesty's Government have paid for some splendid trips in my time and I see no reason, were I a little younger, that they should not pay for a trip to Mars or beyond. I have all the requisite skills and experience, just a shame my joints and heart are not what they were.

I recall chatting to Arthur C Clarke a few years ago about this very thing, seated on a verandah overlooking the Indian ocean ans sipping rather good G and Ts. He confided in me about his idea for a space elevator. At the time I thought it sounded rather far fetched - but remember - this was the chap who invented the geo stationary satellite and we all thought that was far fetched at the time. So I am following the development of super strong materials such as kevlar and carbon fibre with great interest. The remote possibility just exists that I may yet end up buried on the moon.

Long Ago Empires

The world was very different when I was a young man and indeed was even more different when I was a boy. I was just thirteen when the Great War ground to its bloody conclusion and the map of Europe was re written. The once mightyAustro Hungarian empire fragmented into pieces, each a new born nation state- Hungary, Poland, Austria, Czechoslovakia and so forth. At the time the adults around me all seemed to think good riddance but on reflection manyof the sufferings of modern Europe have their origins in the demise of that great empire.

So what has this to do with travel you may ask. Everything dear boy, everything. It is well and good to read books and study historiesbut it is far better to go and have a damn close look yourself. Of course,during the war years this was not terribly practical, though as I may have intimated, I did spend some time in Eastern and Central Europe during that unpleasentness and indeed found much to be admrable in it. Of course, in 1945, Mr Churchill's so called Iron Curtain descended and it was extremelydifficult to go anywhere interesting in the East without being certain your every move was being watched. I didn't even try - too many people in the communist camp would have gained brownie points for terminating my lease on the planet.

But, eventually the hard faced men of Lenin and his ilk were blown away by the economic factors they had thought would destroy the West. The Berlin Wall came down, the new Prague spring arrived, various dictators were deposed or hanged and Central Europe seems to have got back to doing what it does best.

"What might that be"? You ask. First and foremost, being stunningly beautiful on every single level. The landscapes,the architechture, the women. Secondly, the food. Mind, you have to have a certain leaning towards dumplings but the Slavs do things with bread and potatoes that are hardly decent. And thirdly the drink. Good, strong coffee.Necessary for recovery from a bewildering array of lethal spirits. My favourite is Um. This is actually rum, but made with potatoes. And the beer. Well,the Czechs invented lager and while I normally hold English Bitter to bethe finest drink known to man I will make an exception for Czech beer, especiallytheir mix of dark and light which they call rejann.

The pain of love

Once you get beyond one hundred you would think love did not enter the equation anymore,just getting up and breathing would be sufficient surely? The problem of course is memories. There are parts of this planet I am unable to visit without profound feelings of regret and melancholy. For reasons I cannot go into (HMG would take a very dim view) I am unable to visit the Obecni Dum in Prague without bursting into the most unmanly tears which is a serious problem as the Memsahib refuses to visit with me. Likewise I find Reading Railway station a difficult place to be.

I love Czech beer - the best in the world undoubtedly so visits to Prague every few years are compulsory. I was there this summer with my great great niece - a charming child of Antipodean origins. I told her my great state secret and she too wept for all that I had lost. 1943 was not a good year to live in occupied Europe and to be a kind of under cover travel agent was even more risky than most occupations.

And so to music. Certain places are also associated with music. Smetna's "My Country" will be for ever linked to the Obecni Dum, dark nights, Nazi patrols, love in the dark and my dear departed - well I cannot go there - state secrets - but I know we will meet again. Mind you there will be quite a queue and half will be holding rolling pins or similar weapons of domestic violence.

Evening over the Loire Valley

 

The Insanity of Travel

The Insanity of Travel

Summer Delights

There have, of late, been no entries in this electronic journal of mine. I did intend to write more of Morocco but as I intend to return, thought discretion the better part of valour.

Instead, as ever, I have been enjoying my second retirement and travelling the world in an attempt to see as much as I can before global warming turns it into another Venus.

Now I have never been especially fond of the French as a nation. Their penchant for running away, surrendering and trying to stir trouble up in the Empire put them quite beyond the pale. I find I must qualify this however as by and large this unpleasantness is confined to the governing classes and not to the French peasantry.

These days I find a solo motorcycle rather beyond me and while I still wrestle a Tiger Moth into the air when the Air Ministry is not looking I do miss the open helmet, wind in your face experience that was the Vincent Black Shadow. Thus it was that the Memsahiib persuaded me to buy a large motorcycle with a side car attached. I was taken aback by the initial cost but quickly rediscovered the joys of rapid acceleration and a lovely mellifluous exhaust note. I confess I have never been a fan of the American motorcycle but this particular vehicle, being attached to a side car was never going to have its handling characteristics tested to the limit. But where to try this newly discovered delight out properly? The answer of course was La Belle France.

The Memsahib absolutely refused to sit in the side car and instead bestrode the pillion in a pair of very fetching leather trousers. I spurned these in favour of Levi jeans, a brand I know to be nearly as tough as cowhide and a damn sight more comfortable. Problem with getting old is some parts need cossetting.

Always one for a new experience I opted for the Channel Tunnel. I was unsure whether this would be a good move but in the event it worked splendidly with a smooth, quick, trouble free crossing to France.

I love French roads. They have so little traffic. Naturally we kept off the motorways and stayed on the Departement roads. These are lovely with a good surface and only light traffic. Of course, one must keep an eye out for the gendarmerie as they have ferocious powers of on the spot justice - and they will accept American Express as payment for your fine. Apart from this minor irritation however the French motorist is a model polite and considerate road user. who flashes a warning of any speed traps lying ahead.

The other delight of France of course is the Logis system. Only the French could devise a star rating where the hotel is soley judged on its menu. If you can get hold of a little green Logis de France book you are guaranteed a culinary tour de force. Certainly my jeans felt a little tighter at the end of the trip.

Possibly the highlight of this particular adventure was sitting with some merry French peasants on the banks of the Loire, quaffing very homespun red win wine and watching the sun sink in glorious splendour beneath the horizon, lighting the whole sky with fabulous reds and golds. The locals seemed to really take to us, probably the memsahib's leather trousers don't you know but we sat and watched a fascinating social melodrama unfold, which culminated in a sallow faced youth declaring passionate love for Clothilde and being told to sod off by her father and uncle. Such an expressive language French. Eventually the bar closed and the locals stumbled to their cars and mopeds and lurched off into the night, though not before giving me a very bristly set of kisses on each cheek - and stroking the memsahib's hair - it is long, soft and blonde and very strokeable. We walked back to our logis marvelling at the sunset, the alcohol capacity of the average French man and woman and the total absence of any gendarmerie armed with breath testing kit.

Thoughts on Morocco

I remember well the time my friend's uncle captured El Krim and had long wanted to visit the scene of his triumphs. We are of course talking of Morocco, ex protectorate of the French.

The good thing about being an ex protectorate of the French is that the people loathe the French almost as much as we British do (I should say English really as the Scottish have long had a thing for the Gauls). They also produce excellent wine and have a road infrastructure that is remarkably good given the general poverty of the place.

Luckily British Airways flies direct to Agadir. Unfortunately the fact that French airspace was closed meant the journey took almost four hours but when you think Tangiers was four days by steam packet in the thirties that is still a considerable improvement.

Although I am a bit stiff in the joints these days it was still possible to hire a motor car with which to explore the hinterland. On this particular occasion I had the Memsahib with me and she really dislikes camels. Goes back to an unpleasentness near Cairo in 1937. So we hired a French manufacture of motor car.

Of course we could have used the modern road direct to Marakesh but this seemed rather pointless to us as after all it was not our car. Instead we opted for the minor road that passes Taroudant and goes through the Atlas Mountains. This proved to be an excellent decision as the road provided plenty of interest both in terms of driving skills as well as visual delights. The Memsahib clicked away as though she had limitless supplies of film. This digital business amazes me, it really does.

The first unusual sight was some goats in a tree. Goats have never struck me as naturally arboreal yet there they were, quite high in a tree eating the fruit. This was the famous argan nut of course. At Taroudant, our guide Rashid took us to the Argan Oil house where we watched the women grinding the nuts by hand. Said nuts have first passed through a goat's digestive system which accounts for the goats in the trees. The oil takes some extracting. Each kernel is cracked by hand and then ground by hand in a primitive mill. The resulting liquid is then kneaded to turn it into a waxy ball. From this the pure oil is finally squeezed. My question is - whoever discovered such a longwinded process? The oil has many uses, including cooking but the Memsahib was really taken by the idea of an oil which smoothed the skin and took twenty years off her age. Mind you the wrinkle count between sixty and eighty cannot be that different. (Didn't tell her that of course)

We continued on, into the mountains. A road sign said bends for 172 km. Hmm, thought I, that 'll bring the average speed down a touch. The bends were mainly hair pin as the road narrowed to a single lane of tarmacadam with dirt rumble strips either side. Crash barriers were not in evidence, you were obviously expected to drive carefully or not at all. The views were stunning, despite a slight haze. The valley bottoms were lush and green with cultivated land, orchards and cereals. On the steeper ground the vegetation was stunted and clung on like grim death. On the lower slopes villages nestled in the mountainside. How one got to them I could not see. Not by road that was for sure. Probably by mule track. The villages looked as though they were designed with defense in mind and I recalled that it was not till after the last major unpleasantness that the country was properly pacified by the French.

With a certain air of serendipity the Hotel Belle Vue appeared at lunch time. It advertised itself as being 2100m above sea level and an ideal spot for paragliding. Paragliding seems to me to be the aerial equivalent of wind surfing. I have no time for either. If you are going into the sea then get a boat for heaven's sake and if you want to fly at least use a proper glider.

We parked the car and stretched our legs. The view was magnificent, we could see to the far rim of the world as the mountains fell away below us toward the distant Atlantic. We stood for some minutes admiring the vista but then my stomach got the better of me and we adjourned to the hotel in order to see what viands were available. Apparently, for a small sum, we could share a Beerber omelette and this we decided to do, never having tried one before. We sat, drinking mint tea (thoroughly to be recommended), and watching the overloaded lorries and pick up trucks labouring up the pass. All human life was to be observed there.

Our lunch arrived in a tajine. This seems to be the usual way of cooking in Morocco and it looks rather odd. A deeply dished slipware plate with a ponty conical lid. This sits upon a fire and the contents cook gently. THe omelette was quite delicious and rather more than a mere confection of eggs. I won't go into detail but I would thoroughly recommend it as a dish to try.