The Resident ex-Teenager has three friends staying. They were out in Worcester last night. Nearly noon and they should surface soon - meanwhile I have the radio turned low.
Jed asked whether I would mind collecting them from the car park at 3.45 am.
The piece I have in the latest Lonely Planet anthology, BEST OF LONELY PLANET TRAVEL WRITING, ends on this exact topic - that it is an honour to be asked, part and parcel of the joy in being a Dad.
As was telephoning my daughter on her wedding anniversary the day before yesterday. I am a very very very lucky and privileged old man.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 09, 2009
READING ON INDIA
My writing of William Dalrymple's books may lead readers to question my preparations for India. Why do I read a Brit - a Catholic Brit educated at a Benedictine boarding school. I attended the same school and recognised in Dalrymple's writing a similar views of history - though mine were of Hispanic America.
And my recent reading has been broader. Pavan K. Varma strikes me as a Must while Mark Tully's years as the BBC's India expert has led, for me, to irritating presumption of all knowing infallibility.
And my recent reading has been broader. Pavan K. Varma strikes me as a Must while Mark Tully's years as the BBC's India expert has led, for me, to irritating presumption of all knowing infallibility.
LONELY PLANET
I wrote a piece a while back for a Lonely Planet anthology, FLIGHTLESS.
Now Lonely Planet has included the piece in a new anthology, BEST OF LONELY PLANET TRAVEL WRITING.
I am in there with some of those I believe truly great. One is William Dalrymple. In preparation for my journey through India, I have read, enjoyed and learned from four of Dalrymple's books:
WHITE MUGHALS
THE AGE OF KALI
THE LAST MUGHAL
CITY OF DJINNS
FROM THE HOLY MOUNTAIN is equally brilliant,
Now Lonely Planet has included the piece in a new anthology, BEST OF LONELY PLANET TRAVEL WRITING.
I am in there with some of those I believe truly great. One is William Dalrymple. In preparation for my journey through India, I have read, enjoyed and learned from four of Dalrymple's books:
WHITE MUGHALS
THE AGE OF KALI
THE LAST MUGHAL
CITY OF DJINNS
FROM THE HOLY MOUNTAIN is equally brilliant,
GOODBYE TO THE RESIDENT TEENAGER
Tomorrow is Jed's twentieth birthday. Goodbye to the Resident Teenager - though Jed has always been mature for his age. He gave a party Friday night. Bernadette and I stayed the night at my brother's. We came home yesterday afternoon. The house was immaculate.
SITTING EXAMS AT SEVENTY-SIX
Sending a new m/s or article to an editor is similar to presenting an exam paper for marking. Believeing or feeling this makes me a septuagenarian schoolboy and both Bernadette and the Resident teenager are irritated by my lack of confidence. I argue that I am gaining confidence - ok, so a little late in life. Writing articles for the first time in fifty years helps. Send the m/s of a book to your agent and you wait months. Send a piece to a broadsheet editor and you get an immediate response. Bliss...
WHAT'S WRONG?
Seventy-six and off to rediscover India, fantastic (even if I am nervous).
So why are the recent posts depressing?
Mostly because the past months has been waiting for answers to Emails and waiting for telephone calls. Having no control over one's life makes one (me) feel helpless, powerless. Which is depressing!
Are writers manic depressives by nature or does being a writer lead to manic depression?
Only fellow writers should reply.
So why are the recent posts depressing?
Mostly because the past months has been waiting for answers to Emails and waiting for telephone calls. Having no control over one's life makes one (me) feel helpless, powerless. Which is depressing!
Are writers manic depressives by nature or does being a writer lead to manic depression?
Only fellow writers should reply.
WRONGLY MEDICATED
I haven't described last month's car crash. I had been feeling dopey for two days and was booked to drive a neighbour's granddaughter to the train station in Cheltenham and collect our resident teenager. Dopey as in falling backward into the bath and not making too much sense - only in the mornings, Afternoons I was fine. Nights I wasn't sleeping. To continue the saga: having collected the granddaughter and luggage, I reversed the car into the neighbour's wood-frame house. The car was OK. The front of the house has had to be rebuilt - so much for wood-frame construction!
The resident teenager claimed I drove through two red lights on the way home.
Bernadette put me to bed.
It was only then that we discovered that the pharmacist at the clinic had accidentally added a very strong sleeping pill to my monthly sack of cardiac medication. The sleeping pills were the same size as a blood pressure pill I take in the mornings!
The resident teenager claimed I drove through two red lights on the way home.
Bernadette put me to bed.
It was only then that we discovered that the pharmacist at the clinic had accidentally added a very strong sleeping pill to my monthly sack of cardiac medication. The sleeping pills were the same size as a blood pressure pill I take in the mornings!
FLIGHT
The Indian journey is fact. I fly out from Heathrow to Delhi on December 7.
How do I feel?
Excited...
Yes, and a little scared.
Am I recovered from the accident in Tierra del Fuego - not the physical damage but the fear of getting run down.
Will Indian traffic be totally terrifying?
How do I feel?
Excited...
Yes, and a little scared.
Am I recovered from the accident in Tierra del Fuego - not the physical damage but the fear of getting run down.
Will Indian traffic be totally terrifying?
MCN
Weird...I sought commisions from various editors before traveling the Americas. None of them gave me the time of day, I presume, because the odds were against a septuagenarian surviving such a ride. I'm a couple of years older now. The odds are worse. Yet I turned down an offer from the Guardian and have been signed for both High Life and MCN. MCN want a fortnightly video plus a couple of articles...
HIGH LIFE
I will be covering my journey through India in the British Airways in-flight magazine, High Life. and writing a monthly diary for the High Life web site.
THE MAHARAJAS AT THE V&A
The Victoria and Albert museum in London is hosting an exhibition of the Maharajas' treasures. The Taj Hotel Group are co sponsors of the exhibition and kindly invited me to a reception at the museum. I have been reading history for the past months. The history cast a thick veil over the exhibits, often of blood, and made the exhibits difficult to see simply as works of art.
ROYAL ENFIELD
I was greeted with enthusiasm in my first approach to ROYAL ENFIELD. The use of a bike for my tour of India seemed assured. I warned Enfield in my Presentation that I wouldn't lie. Now I am back to Honda. Why? Perhaps there is a question of reliability? And, to be truthful, I was unhappy at changing steeds. My Brazilian built Honda 125 carried me 40,000 miles through the Americas without mechanical failure or problem. We reached an altitude of 4,700 meters, not fast, but without a splutter. I expect the same reliability from an Indian built Honda. All that I would change is the seat...
DEEP IN DEPRESSION
Where have I been? Malvern Spa most days attempting to get fit for India. Also traipsing to London, visiting and having family visit. And wondering whether the India trip is fantasy or reality...and wondering whether I can cope if it does happen. And feeling fat and ugly and old old old...
Sunday, September 27, 2009
HOTTING UP
Life is exciting. Firstly I am represented by a new literary agent, Piers Russell-Cobb and a new agent for Foreign Rights, Camilla Ferrier. I've had meetings with the Marketing Manager for the Taj Group and with the Royal Enfield representative for Europe.
Last week I was in London and down to Kent to meet with Toby Brocklehurst.
Tomorrow I drive north to talk with members of the Wakefield Branch of the Classic Bike Club.
Tuesday I'll be at MCN in Peterborough.
Friday to London again for a meeting with Dan Foley of DF Entertainment.
And I've had my hair cut...
Last week I was in London and down to Kent to meet with Toby Brocklehurst.
Tomorrow I drive north to talk with members of the Wakefield Branch of the Classic Bike Club.
Tuesday I'll be at MCN in Peterborough.
Friday to London again for a meeting with Dan Foley of DF Entertainment.
And I've had my hair cut...
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
WINTER IN INDIA
Planning for this winter's exploration of India progresses. MCN will follow the journey both in print and in a fortnightly video. The Guardian want one three-page spread on completion similar to the coverage of the Americas journey. I hope for more than the single broadsheet thtee-page coverage on completion on offer at the Guardian so will try elsewhere - Telegraph, FT (and the Mail).
Friday, September 11, 2009
US INVASION OF PANAMA
In the previous Blog I refer to the US invasion of Panama - Operation Just Cause.
Those interested can find the entries made during my travels in Archives for 2006-07-08 and 2006-07-16
My experience of Hispanic America was quite wide.
I reported what people said.
That much of what was said was critical of the US is hurtful to many US citizens.
As is criticism of Britain hurtful, however justified, to this Old Brit Blimp.
I have listened to an immense amount of anti-British criticism!
I may well listen to much more while traveling through India this winter.
I will strive to report truthfully.
Those interested can find the entries made during my travels in Archives for 2006-07-08 and 2006-07-16
My experience of Hispanic America was quite wide.
I reported what people said.
That much of what was said was critical of the US is hurtful to many US citizens.
As is criticism of Britain hurtful, however justified, to this Old Brit Blimp.
I have listened to an immense amount of anti-British criticism!
I may well listen to much more while traveling through India this winter.
I will strive to report truthfully.
REPLY TO READER/CRITIC
I am sad that you should think me anti-US. There are many facets of the US that I admire and of which I am envious, the Supreme Court being an example and one of the world's great institutions. However US foreign policy, particularly as regard Hispanic America, has been ill-informed and often disastrous both for the peoples and for the US.
In general, when traveling, I report the beliefs of the people - what they tell me. I try not to inject my own opinions. This is difficult in countries I know well - such as Guatemala. However of Panama I knew almost nothing prior to my recent journeys, certainly almost nothing of the US invasion. Thus I was surprised at finding it so prominent in Panamanian conversation. In reporting these conversations I wrote that I had no idea of the truth. I do know what many Panamanians believe to be the truth.
Finally it is important to differentiate between attitudes to the people of the US who are generally popular and with US Government policy which is usually unpopular. No one doubts the kindness and generosity of the average US citizen - I, least of all. My adopted daughter is a US citizen by birth and by residence. I visit her often and through her have a wide and close and treasured friendship with an extended family.
Ride safe,
simon
In general, when traveling, I report the beliefs of the people - what they tell me. I try not to inject my own opinions. This is difficult in countries I know well - such as Guatemala. However of Panama I knew almost nothing prior to my recent journeys, certainly almost nothing of the US invasion. Thus I was surprised at finding it so prominent in Panamanian conversation. In reporting these conversations I wrote that I had no idea of the truth. I do know what many Panamanians believe to be the truth.
Finally it is important to differentiate between attitudes to the people of the US who are generally popular and with US Government policy which is usually unpopular. No one doubts the kindness and generosity of the average US citizen - I, least of all. My adopted daughter is a US citizen by birth and by residence. I visit her often and through her have a wide and close and treasured friendship with an extended family.
Ride safe,
simon
US READER/CRITIC
Mr. Gandolfi: I enjoyed your book, which I read promptly after you so promptly sent it.
You are truly an inspiration to those of us who are slightly "long-in-the-tooth," but still dreaming of unknown horizons and unrealized adventures. But I would have enjoyed much more if not for your formulaic anti-USism..... which intrudes on nearly every page. Your wife was right to worry about you writing a polemic. To blame us for all the world's ills is intellectually anemic, and unworthy of the extreme talents you possess. I had to say that, of course.... makes me sick at heart to know you believe that way. Other than that, thank you for your book and for your inspiration....
You are truly an inspiration to those of us who are slightly "long-in-the-tooth," but still dreaming of unknown horizons and unrealized adventures. But I would have enjoyed much more if not for your formulaic anti-USism..... which intrudes on nearly every page. Your wife was right to worry about you writing a polemic. To blame us for all the world's ills is intellectually anemic, and unworthy of the extreme talents you possess. I had to say that, of course.... makes me sick at heart to know you believe that way. Other than that, thank you for your book and for your inspiration....
Saturday, September 05, 2009
WHAT BIKE?
What bike for India? I visited the British importer of Royal Enfield Bullets yesterday, Watsonian-Squire. Could I handle a Bullet? Was it too heavy? I wheeled it round the parking lot, backwards and forwards, lifted it onto its stand - no problem. And that big broad seat mounted on coil springs, Bliss!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
SHED THE FLAB
I have started a new BLOG to record my transformation from fat old man to silver fox. To see, hit the title
Saturday, August 22, 2009
MUPPIX
Writing tends to be a lonely business. Close on a year usually passes between completing the manuscript and the book going on sale. Painters show their work and watch people's reaction. Musicians enjoy a live audience. The chance of a writer seeing a reader engrossed in his work is remote. Receiving a letter from a reader is immensely rewarding. The letter helps recharge the writer's battery. So my gratitude to MUPPIX who posted on Tuesday's BLOG. Thank you, MUPPIX, and my gratitude also to those other readers who have taken the time to write me...
GUARDIAN SPELLING
Telegraph readers and Private Eye mock the Guardian for its spelling errors. Dyslexic, I am no judge of spelling. However I can spell my own name - thus my irritation at finding in the Guardian's The Full British supplement today a double spread on Herefordshire under the byline, Simon Gandalfi.
Ah, well...
Ah, well...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
OLD MAN ON A BIKE
Good day - though I am in a state of collapse. Bernadette has ordered me to take it easy for a couple of days. Meanwhile anyone wanting a signed copy of the book recording my septuagenarian ride south from Mexico to Tierra del Fuego, OLD MAN ON A BIKE (HarperCollins), can go to my web site by hitting the above title.
You may not need the read - I definitely need readers to help fund this winter's ride through India. For those who don't read books - remember that books are the perfect present - easy to wrap, cheap to post and everyone complains that books are expensive. £8.99 as an expensive gift - I told you, perfect!
You may not need the read - I definitely need readers to help fund this winter's ride through India. For those who don't read books - remember that books are the perfect present - easy to wrap, cheap to post and everyone complains that books are expensive. £8.99 as an expensive gift - I told you, perfect!
Friday, August 14, 2009
GUARDIAN
remnants of open air stageThursday, August 13, 2009
BIG CHILL
DONE THAT! And have finished the piece for the Guardian for this Saturday's Travel Section. All four sons were here for the Chill, wives, babies, girlfriends, friends - total bliss seeing them together on the lawn at the cottage for brunch before heading back for another day of music and weird happenings.
My only sadness - that Anya and Michael weren't here with Shane...
My only sadness - that Anya and Michael weren't here with Shane...
Saturday, August 08, 2009
KIND READERS
Thank you all for reading my stuff...and to those who comment. It helps. I have been busy these last two weeks with the Big Chill festival. I am due to produce 1500 words on the festival for the Guardian by Wednesday morning. Readers can check progress at my BIGCHILLDIARY Blog by hitting the KIND READERS heading above. Cheers...
Friday, July 31, 2009
IT IS OK TO COMMENT
Dear Readers - or what ever...
You may hate what I write on this BLOG, find it moderately interesting, totally boring, unpleasantly arrogant, presumptuous, bigoted, ill-informed, pretentious. Your comments would enlighten me. No bad thing...
You may hate what I write on this BLOG, find it moderately interesting, totally boring, unpleasantly arrogant, presumptuous, bigoted, ill-informed, pretentious. Your comments would enlighten me. No bad thing...
Thursday, July 30, 2009
GUARDIAN NEWSPAPER
My apologies to any Telegraph or News of the World readers I deceived into buying the Guardian last Saturday. I was in error earlier. The piece on Herefordshire for the Travel section comes out at the end of August...
FAT OLD BLIMP
My wife accuses me of ranting. I do rant. Ranting goes with being a Fat Old Blimp. - probably because we know that we are powerless to change the evils and injustices we witness or counter the multitude of stupidities born of a failure to study even recent history.
THIS VILE GOVERNMENT
I come of a generation with military service. We have fierce feelings of loyalty to those serving today. The Regiment in which I served as a moderately incompetent junior officer, the 16th/5th Lancers, is now amalgamated with the 17th/21st. Though leaving the army more than fifty years ago, I take very personally the casualties the Regiment suffers.
This vile Government orders young men, many of them in their late teens, into mortal combat. Some are killed. More suffer appalling wounds. Meanwhile the Ministry of Defense takes Court action in an attempt to curtail disability payments.
I listened today in enraged disgust to the weasel excuses for this Court action offered by the new Minister, Mr. Ainsworth, in an interview on Radio 4. New Minister? Of course. Frequently changing Ministers stops the present Minister being held responsible for even recent errors. It was all a previous Minister's fault. Or a previous Minister's...
In this case, the previous Minister was Mr. Hutton. Mr. Hutton is favoured by many in his Party to replace the present Prime Minister. Mr Hutton was Secretary of Defense for a mere six months before accepting promotion to the Ministry of Health. A man of honour would have refused to leave his post until those he had ordered into battle had completed the task this Government set them. Honour? Amongst a Governing Party of which less than a dozen Members of Parliament bothered to attend either of the last two Parliamentary Defense debates? Presumably they were too busy seeking excuses for fiddling their expense accounts.
Are the Tories any better?
Probably not - though David Davies seems to be a man of honour.
Well, well, well - got that off my chest. Do I feel better? A little...
This vile Government orders young men, many of them in their late teens, into mortal combat. Some are killed. More suffer appalling wounds. Meanwhile the Ministry of Defense takes Court action in an attempt to curtail disability payments.
I listened today in enraged disgust to the weasel excuses for this Court action offered by the new Minister, Mr. Ainsworth, in an interview on Radio 4. New Minister? Of course. Frequently changing Ministers stops the present Minister being held responsible for even recent errors. It was all a previous Minister's fault. Or a previous Minister's...
In this case, the previous Minister was Mr. Hutton. Mr. Hutton is favoured by many in his Party to replace the present Prime Minister. Mr Hutton was Secretary of Defense for a mere six months before accepting promotion to the Ministry of Health. A man of honour would have refused to leave his post until those he had ordered into battle had completed the task this Government set them. Honour? Amongst a Governing Party of which less than a dozen Members of Parliament bothered to attend either of the last two Parliamentary Defense debates? Presumably they were too busy seeking excuses for fiddling their expense accounts.
Are the Tories any better?
Probably not - though David Davies seems to be a man of honour.
Well, well, well - got that off my chest. Do I feel better? A little...
DISGUSTED AND ENRAGED
I should be concentrating on the build-up to the BIG CHILL, finishing an article on Herefordshire for the Guardian, praying for good weather so that I can mow the lawn before it grows into a hay field, reading more books on India, writing the final two chapters of a new novel and, most imperatively, attempting to converse with the Resident Teenager who has been in full grunt mode for the past three days. Am I to blame? Probably. Presuming my guilt, yet not knowing of what (in this case) I am guilty has kept me awake most of the past two nights.
This morning my anxieties have been replaced by fury. Why? Read the next entry.
This morning my anxieties have been replaced by fury. Why? Read the next entry.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
GUARDIAN
The Guardian is running pull-out this Saturday on holidaying in England. I have a long piece on Herefordshire. Readers can check the Guardian's web site. Meanwhile readers of this Blog can follow my doing on my BIG CHILL DIARY Blog by hitting the GUARDIAN title.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
BIG CHILL DIARY
Blogs become confusing. I should have written the two Americas journeys as separate Blogs with a third Blog for Home. Otherwise readers wanting to check a place or a How to must search though the entire archive. Irritating. I know. I have to do it when writing articles or what ever. So this new Blog, BIG CHILL DIARY, is the product of a learning experience. The Blog will cover the Big Chill Festival and its build up at Eastnor Castle. I am covering the Big Chill for the Guardian newspaper and making a presentation. Weird - I thought festivals were for the hip young - and for those who enjoy mud. However the Big Chill is different. Leonard Cohen headlined last year.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
TEEPPEES
My teeppee has a central post. I can haul myself out of bed and stand upright whilst pulling on my trousers. Not for me the bum-shuffling necessary in the sort of tent that the teenager considers cool. You know? Dragging you pants on (or off) while seated on a cold damp groundsheet?
THE WEERMACHT HAS LANDED
I camped at the Horizons Unlimited Spring meet at Ripley, Derbyshire.
Or had the Weermacht landed? A meadow of gleaming BMWs!!!
Grant and Susan Johnson founded Horizons Unlimited on the Web as a biker community for travelers. The Spring meet ran for four days with a dozen or more bikers giving talks on their travels. The fun is in meeting people in the flesh whom you have communicated with over the years. I heard from bikers recently in Tierra del Fuego that the sainted Graciela (she who rescued me after my accident) has opened a Bar and reopened the Hotel Argentino. Travelers passing thru Rio Grande please stop by with messages from me of adoration. Graciela will show you my wheelchair...
TEENAGE SUPREMACY
THE TEENAGER DOING HIS THING
I have been camping at a biker meet and will do so at the BIG CHILL festival.
My life is a rearguard action against teenager supremacy.
Anti-cool is my only weapon - thus I bought a silver teeppee and two zebra-striped camp chairs that no teenager would be seen dead in - particularly not a teenage supreme sports suicide kid camping out at a supreme sports championship (at which all gear gets trashed). So my gear is safe. As is my pink pen...
EMILY
Anna has a new cousin - and I have a second granddaughter, Emily, daughter of Sarah and my eldest son, Antony.
Wow! Woopee! Cheers!
Wow! Woopee! Cheers!
GRANDDAUGHTERS
I haven't written in a while. My head has been too full of anxieties personal to my family: tears shed for a new-born granddaughter in intensive care, pain for the parents, helplessness in the face of their fears, sense of utter failure in not possessing a magic wand - such is fatherhood.
Tiny Anna is home now. She is utterly beautiful, gurgles softly, joyously, and is gaining weight.
And I ask myself why am I so emotionally pathetic when my son and his wife are so strong...
Tiny Anna is home now. She is utterly beautiful, gurgles softly, joyously, and is gaining weight.
And I ask myself why am I so emotionally pathetic when my son and his wife are so strong...
Thursday, May 28, 2009
ENGLISH CATHOLICISM
I find myself at ease with William Dalrymple's writings. I telephoned my brother yesterday to ask what he knew of Dalrymple – was he a Catholic?
Yes, educated at Ampleforth, the Benedictine boarding school which both my brother and I attended.
The persecution of Catholics in Scotland and England began under Henry V111 in 1535 with the Act of Supremacy and continued through to the Emancipation Act of 1829. Laws that forbade Catholics from Government service and from the Armed Forces and from the practice of Law made us onlookers to the conduct of our nation. Excluded from responsibility, our understanding of history is less partisan.
Yes, educated at Ampleforth, the Benedictine boarding school which both my brother and I attended.
The persecution of Catholics in Scotland and England began under Henry V111 in 1535 with the Act of Supremacy and continued through to the Emancipation Act of 1829. Laws that forbade Catholics from Government service and from the Armed Forces and from the practice of Law made us onlookers to the conduct of our nation. Excluded from responsibility, our understanding of history is less partisan.
WILLIAM DALRYMPLE
India is next on the itinerary. I hope to fly to Mumbai in October. Meanwhile, I have returned William Dalrymple's THE AGE OF KALI to the bookshelves and am reading his brilliant depiction of 19th Century Delhi and its destruction, THE LAST MUGHAL. Dalrymple's WHITE MUGHALS and THE CITY OF DJINNS await my attention in company with Mark Tully's INDIA IN SLOW MOTION.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
THE HORNET'S NEST
A factual account of Anglo-Danish espionage during World War 11 contained inaccuracies regarding my stepfather, Colonel C E C Rabagliati. The writer, Mark Ryan, has corrected those inaccuracies in the second edition. The book is a good and exciting read. Find it on Amazon: THE HORNET'S NEST (HarperCollins UK) - or in your local library.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
SWINDON FESTIVAL OF LITERATURE
Matt Holland organizes the Swindon Festival. He is a neat man of trim figure and clipped beard. Amongst his attributes is a wonderfully childlike enthusiasm. This enthusiasm is shared by Matt's brother, Robin.
Robin accompanied me to my presentation. Many in the audience were members of the Vintage Motorcycle Club. I am a great fan of the VMCC. Members make a mature audience (mature being how I might perceive myself were I to wear rose-tinted spectacles) and are sufficiently good-mannered to hide their boredom/show appreciation.
I will be the guest of another branch of the VMCC in Northampton on Monday, May 18.
Robin accompanied me to my presentation. Many in the audience were members of the Vintage Motorcycle Club. I am a great fan of the VMCC. Members make a mature audience (mature being how I might perceive myself were I to wear rose-tinted spectacles) and are sufficiently good-mannered to hide their boredom/show appreciation.
I will be the guest of another branch of the VMCC in Northampton on Monday, May 18.
Monday, May 04, 2009
PORN STAR/PORN DOG
I have been accused of Blimpish misuse of language. You know - all those traps for the unwary (though I remain puzzled as to why it is impolite to refer to a lady as Chairman rather than Chair)?
My present transgression of political correctness involves Hamish. True, Hamish is a dog. However calling him a Porn Dog rather than a Porn Star is belittling of the canine species. In recompense for my error, Bernadette has presented him with a new collar and lead.
GAURDIAN TRAVEL
A cold wind and rain baptises the Bank Holiday. Saturday's Guardian Travel section carried Katrina Larkin's and my tour of Herefordshire together with a short video. Sun bathed the cricket fields yesterday. Devon lost to Herefordshire on the upper field. Colwall was eliminated from the Village Knockout Competition on the lower. And Colwall Cricket Club suffered a great loss. Peter Pedlingham died while watching the Village Knockout. Colwall Cricket Club was a precious part of Peter's life. He was one of those rare and admirable men on whose great generosity of time and effort and dedication the continuing existence of village clubs depend. His parting will be of particular and daily loss to those of us who live on the boundaries of the Club's fields. He was so essential a part of nature's yearly cycle. He appeared at the ground with the first Spring buds, tirelessly mowing, raking, pruning – only to cease with the last of the Autumn leaves.
My own sense of loss is very selfish: I shall miss never again carrying his mug of tea out to the field of an evening (strong, two sugars). I shall miss persuading him to cease work for a moment, to sit with Derek Brimmel, Graham Careless and I on a bench by the ceder tree to admire the sunset. With his parting, there will be an emptiness there as we sip our tea and look across the cricket field – as if one of the oak trees had been felled.
My own sense of loss is very selfish: I shall miss never again carrying his mug of tea out to the field of an evening (strong, two sugars). I shall miss persuading him to cease work for a moment, to sit with Derek Brimmel, Graham Careless and I on a bench by the ceder tree to admire the sunset. With his parting, there will be an emptiness there as we sip our tea and look across the cricket field – as if one of the oak trees had been felled.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
GLORIOUS HEREFORDSHIRE
I have spent two glorious Spring days showing Katrina Larkin, founder of The Big Chill, my beloved Herefordshire. No company could be better...
Places we visited:
Hampton Court, Leominster
Coddington Vineyard
Padling down the Wye from Mordiford to Hoarwithy
How Caple Court
James Marsden's cider and perry orchard at Gregg's Pit farm
Check this coming Saturday's Guardian travel section (May 2nd) for a full account.
Places we visited:
Hampton Court, Leominster
Coddington Vineyard
Padling down the Wye from Mordiford to Hoarwithy
How Caple Court
James Marsden's cider and perry orchard at Gregg's Pit farm
Check this coming Saturday's Guardian travel section (May 2nd) for a full account.
Monday, April 27, 2009
THE BIG CHILL
Katrina Larkin, founder of THE BIG CHILL festival, was with us for two days. I was showing Katrina my beautiful Herefordshire for a Guardian Travel article. Being with Katrina was a great blessing at a time of emotional pain. We enjoyed perfect weather and Herefordshire glowed in glorious Spring colours.
TERROR
I have been in terror the past days. My daughter-in-law, Julia, gave birth to my first granddaughter (the first Gandolfi girl in three generations). Rather than celebration, it has been a time of terror with Anna in intensive care. Poor tiny mite...
Thank God, she is now out of immediate danger.
Thank God, she is now out of immediate danger.
Friday, April 17, 2009
DSA
I have never owned a bike in the UK. Bikes are for warm weather - preferably dry. England's summer makes a good winter. As a summer, it fails.
Not having a bike, I have never bothered with a UK bike license. Times have changed. Our youngest son, Jed, returns soon from his winter job in the French Alps. He will want to use my car. Time to buy a bike so I need to get legal. The Driving Standards Authority (DSA) is introducing a new, more difficult module to the test on April 27. Most training companies are against the module as too costly and dangerous. The biggest UK driver training company, BSM, is pulling out of the biker market. The DSA have arranged for me to ride the module today. If an old man of 76 can pass, where's the problem?
Steve from ACER Motorcycle Training brings a Honda 125 CG to the test area in Gloucester for me to ride. The Press Officer from the DSA is there. Motorcycle News (MCN) has sent a photographer. The tester is the DSA's instructor of testers.
I practice the module a few times. I'm ready. The tester is ready.
Steve asks if I'm confident of the two speed sections. Yes...
Steve's assistant, Paul, asks if I'm OK for the two speed sections. Yes...
I wish they would stop asking. Asking makes me nervous.
And I wish the track wasn't wet.
I ride the module twice for the tester: first a slalom, double figure of 8, 20 meters at walking speed and U turn. Last come the two speed sections, swerve and emergency stop. I hit the two speed gates at 54 kph for the emergency stop and 52 for the swerve. 50 is the pass speed.
The photographer asks me to ride the test a few more times.
I thank Steve and Paul from ACER and the tester from the DSA and the press officer from the DSA and the photographer from MCN - and I give cards to a few bikers watching the test. Then I drive home. Bernadette has taken Josh and Jen to the Malvern Spa. I make myself a mug of tea and collapse on the sofa. Reading demands too much energy and there is nothing of interest on TV. Hamish settles across my lap...
Not having a bike, I have never bothered with a UK bike license. Times have changed. Our youngest son, Jed, returns soon from his winter job in the French Alps. He will want to use my car. Time to buy a bike so I need to get legal. The Driving Standards Authority (DSA) is introducing a new, more difficult module to the test on April 27. Most training companies are against the module as too costly and dangerous. The biggest UK driver training company, BSM, is pulling out of the biker market. The DSA have arranged for me to ride the module today. If an old man of 76 can pass, where's the problem?
Steve from ACER Motorcycle Training brings a Honda 125 CG to the test area in Gloucester for me to ride. The Press Officer from the DSA is there. Motorcycle News (MCN) has sent a photographer. The tester is the DSA's instructor of testers.
I practice the module a few times. I'm ready. The tester is ready.
Steve asks if I'm confident of the two speed sections. Yes...
Steve's assistant, Paul, asks if I'm OK for the two speed sections. Yes...
I wish they would stop asking. Asking makes me nervous.
And I wish the track wasn't wet.
I ride the module twice for the tester: first a slalom, double figure of 8, 20 meters at walking speed and U turn. Last come the two speed sections, swerve and emergency stop. I hit the two speed gates at 54 kph for the emergency stop and 52 for the swerve. 50 is the pass speed.
The photographer asks me to ride the test a few more times.
I thank Steve and Paul from ACER and the tester from the DSA and the press officer from the DSA and the photographer from MCN - and I give cards to a few bikers watching the test. Then I drive home. Bernadette has taken Josh and Jen to the Malvern Spa. I make myself a mug of tea and collapse on the sofa. Reading demands too much energy and there is nothing of interest on TV. Hamish settles across my lap...
BRAVE YOUNG LADY
Our eldest son, Josh, and his girlfriend, Jen, have been visiting. Jen is brave to visit. It must be scary. All those How-do-you-dos with strangers. How awful will they be? You know? The boyfriend's folks? Are they really weird? And what do they expect? Commitment to a relationship? Planning for a fifty year future? Or, worse - conversation?
We are weird. Maybe not weird weird - but definitely unusual.
As for our cottage, romantic from the outside, great as a picture postcard. Bernadette and I love to live here. Through other eyes? Primitive, crumbling, a 300-year-old wreck...
And Hamish doesn't help. He is over enthusiastic as a greeter, jumps up at people, scrabbles at them with wet muddy paws.
We are weird. Maybe not weird weird - but definitely unusual.
As for our cottage, romantic from the outside, great as a picture postcard. Bernadette and I love to live here. Through other eyes? Primitive, crumbling, a 300-year-old wreck...
And Hamish doesn't help. He is over enthusiastic as a greeter, jumps up at people, scrabbles at them with wet muddy paws.
PORN DOG
I am mystified by the intimate workings of the internet and what gets listed on Google and why. The Blog entry, USELESS BORDER TERRIER, rang a Google bell. I trolled searches to the Blog and discovered Hamish as third-from-top entry in a sex search! Our eldest son, Josh, has been staying a couple of days. He has bathed and brushed Hamish as befits a porn star. Next step? Hollywood...
Sunday, April 12, 2009
EASTER/PASSOVER
Yesterday we drove our Dutch friends to Hampton Court. On the banks of the Lugg river near Leominster, Hampton Court is a lovely Tudor castellated manor house parts of which date back to the early 15th century. We continued to Ross on Wye where the Dutch canoed on the river for a couple of hours while Bernadette and I read the Sunday papers in the gardens of the White Lion pub. We drove home on country lanes that wind through the Herefordshire hills - glorious sunny weather and the Dutch playing with buying a holiday home.
BOOKS ARE NOW AVAILABLE AT http://www.simongandolfi.com
BOOKS ARE NOW AVAILABLE AT http://www.simongandolfi.com
Thursday, April 09, 2009
HEREFORDSHIRE
Katrina Larkin is a co-founder of the Big Chill music festival. I will be covering the festival for the Guardian. Katrina will write a piece prior to the festival on my Herefordshire, the Herefordshire that I dream of when away traveling. I spent today visiting favorite sites for Katrina's article. Great day...plus having our Dutch friends here and celebrating both Easter and Passover week. I refer to the Dutch as our friends - not true. They are our family. Waking this morning, I lay in bed and listened joyfully to their voices rising from the kitchen.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
A GREAT LIFE
I have a great life: a wife, four sons and a daughter, all of whom I adore and all of whom talk to me. My two elder sons and my daughter have wonderful lovable partners. I have four glorious grandsons. A first granddaughter is due imminently and a second next month. We live in a three-hundred year old cottage (slum or cute, depending on your expectations) with beautiful views across the Herefordshire countryside. We have kind and enjoyable friends on every continent. I am in good health, get to travel and write.
Depressed?
Don't give me that crap, old man.
Get it together or Bernadette will kick you up the backside...
Depressed?
Don't give me that crap, old man.
Get it together or Bernadette will kick you up the backside...
USELESS BORDER TERRIER
Our Border terrier, Hamish, is young and feisty. He escaped yesterday (the postman had left the gate open). Frenzied barking led me to a house down the lane. Hamish had discovered a large flop-eared black and white rabbit in a cage on the front lawn. A tough Chav-type rabbit, safe in its cage, would have stuck its tongue out at Hamish. This rabbit was in shock. I dragged Hamish home and stuck his nose in one of the many moles hills desecrating our lawns. Hamish's answer: he doesn't do moles. He does sex with almost anything (including furniture), he does sleep, he does food and he does friendship with all and sundry (including burglars if any came our way). All in all, a totaly useless animal...
Though very handsome.
Though very handsome.
MANIC DEPRESSION
The image I project is of a fat, moderately jolly old buffer. In fact I suffer from manic depression. Traveling produces the manic mode. The past few weeks I have been in depression. One of the side affects is an inability to write letters. This must strike readers as the most inadequate excuse for bad manners. However, from those with whom I should have communicated, I beg forgiveness...
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
DSA BIKER TEST
I have been practicing for the new DSA bike test over the past two weeks. The test includes riding through a speed gate at 50 kph and immediately swerving before pulling up in a box. I ride a Honda 125 loaned by BRANSONS MOTORCYCLES, the Gloucester Honda Agent. The test area is short and a Honda 125 isn't the speediest accelerator. It takes a while to get the line and acceleration right. Steve of Acer Motorcycle Training spent ten years track racing. He has practiced on the new course over the past two months and reached 58 kph through the gate on the Honda CG. He is a good teacher and I finally made 51 kph after ten practice runs.
TOM YAM
I wrote that I must get off politics and back to cooking. Our eldest son, Josh, visits next Tuesday for two nights with his girlfriend, Jen. Josh called to say Hi and ask what I was preparing for Tuesday evening. We haven't met Jen. Josh says she isn't a vegetarian but wouldn't order a steak at a restaurant. Sea food?
Yes.
Great - I will prepare my favorite dish, Tom Yam. I use mussels as well as prawns and prepare a hot sauce to serve on the side.
SAUCE:
chilies, garlic & shallots
fish sauce and shrimp paste
tamarind
soft brown sugar
Yes.
Great - I will prepare my favorite dish, Tom Yam. I use mussels as well as prawns and prepare a hot sauce to serve on the side.
SAUCE:
chilies, garlic & shallots
fish sauce and shrimp paste
tamarind
soft brown sugar
Monday, April 06, 2009
GET BACK TO COOKING
I have been enraged for the past few days by morally corrupt British politicians. I need to get back into the kitchen. We have a Dutch family, dear friends, arriving Wednesday for Easter/Passover - a fine time to plan a fine meal. I will drop by the butcher in Malvern Wells tomorrow. He gets his beef from the Scottish Highlands. Skirt is the perfect cut for the barbecue. Essential that I remember not to overdo the chili.
GEOF HOON HAS NO SHAME
Geoff Hoon was Minister of Defense when Britain joined the United States' invasion of Afghanistan. Geoff Hoon was Minister of Defense for three and a half years. He occupied a luxury apartment free of rent in Admiralty House. He rented out his own London house and charged the British tax payer for the upkeep of his home in his Nottinghamshire Constituency. Meanwhile the families of British soldiers serving in Iraq and Afghanistan were condemned to substandard accommodation. Their accommodation was Geoff Hoon's responsibility. An honorable man would resign in shame. Honor is foreign to Mister Hoon.
Hoon's father was a railwayman. By profession, Hoon is a barrister. I recall a saying from my youth: Go screw the working class, I've got the foreman's job at last.
Bravo, Mister Hoon...
Hoon's father was a railwayman. By profession, Hoon is a barrister. I recall a saying from my youth: Go screw the working class, I've got the foreman's job at last.
Bravo, Mister Hoon...
HEROES OR TERRORISTS?
I spent much of my childhood in the Scottish Borders. I remember reading Buchan and Kipling and imagining myself a British officer disguised as a Pathan tribesman, the Cheviot Hills as the Hindu Kush. My elder brother and I rode most day - my brother, a turbaned Chieftain. Tsarist Russia was the enemy. So much for fantasy...
Forty years later I followed moujahidin into Afghanistan. I wore a khaki turban and khaki pyjamas and carried a World War One rifle (all Afghans carry weapons). Soviet Russia was the enemy.
A narrow footpath climbed barren mountains parallel to the Khyber Pass. The path petered out and we scrambled up slides of granite scree and clawed our way across rock. We reached the head of the pass at nearly 3,000 meters, descended into a valley and walked until evening when we dined on chapatis that were 80% sand. Full moon and we stumbled all night up a dry river bed. Dawn and we slept an hour in a ruined farm house - no chapatis. Then we walked all day and were finally through the Russians' exclusion zone. For those two days the leader of our troop encouraged me with threats of Russian helicopter gunships. I prayed for a Russian gunship. One bomb. Peace...
A different peace came three days later.
We had shivered through the night on an open mountain side. The sun rose. The clarity of vision in the mountain air verged on the hallucinatory. We followed a stream up a narrow valley. Grass grew emerald on the banks and I recall wild flowers and a pair of blue kingfishers and an abundance of pale yellow butterflies. An old man had presented me with a horse the previous day and I rode to the rear of our troop. One by one, the moujahidin passed me their weapons until I resembled a mobile game of pick-up-sticks. I had no idea of our destination nor of our troop's intention. For the first time in years I was freed from any possibility of taking a decision and rode in an almost trance-like state of peace. Yet this was war. Two thirds of the population had fled their country, every village lay in ruins, livestock had been stolen or killed by bullet or landmine, food was famine short. So, though happy, I was also shamed by my happiness.
Two mulberry trees in fruit shaded the stream at the head of the valley. We rolled rocks to form a dam and one of the younger moujahidin climbed the trees and shook berries down into the chill water. We sat with our feet in the water below the pool, cooling them from the march and eating the mulberries and I recall the faces of the moujahidin - fierceness melted by the moment's content. I recall jokes and laughter and an intense companionship and trust one in the other and of trust in these harsh mountains that rose purple from the valley and barred Russians in their tanks and APCs. Now the tanks and APCs and gunships are American and British – and the heroes I traveled with are terrorists.
Forty years later I followed moujahidin into Afghanistan. I wore a khaki turban and khaki pyjamas and carried a World War One rifle (all Afghans carry weapons). Soviet Russia was the enemy.
A narrow footpath climbed barren mountains parallel to the Khyber Pass. The path petered out and we scrambled up slides of granite scree and clawed our way across rock. We reached the head of the pass at nearly 3,000 meters, descended into a valley and walked until evening when we dined on chapatis that were 80% sand. Full moon and we stumbled all night up a dry river bed. Dawn and we slept an hour in a ruined farm house - no chapatis. Then we walked all day and were finally through the Russians' exclusion zone. For those two days the leader of our troop encouraged me with threats of Russian helicopter gunships. I prayed for a Russian gunship. One bomb. Peace...
A different peace came three days later.
We had shivered through the night on an open mountain side. The sun rose. The clarity of vision in the mountain air verged on the hallucinatory. We followed a stream up a narrow valley. Grass grew emerald on the banks and I recall wild flowers and a pair of blue kingfishers and an abundance of pale yellow butterflies. An old man had presented me with a horse the previous day and I rode to the rear of our troop. One by one, the moujahidin passed me their weapons until I resembled a mobile game of pick-up-sticks. I had no idea of our destination nor of our troop's intention. For the first time in years I was freed from any possibility of taking a decision and rode in an almost trance-like state of peace. Yet this was war. Two thirds of the population had fled their country, every village lay in ruins, livestock had been stolen or killed by bullet or landmine, food was famine short. So, though happy, I was also shamed by my happiness.
Two mulberry trees in fruit shaded the stream at the head of the valley. We rolled rocks to form a dam and one of the younger moujahidin climbed the trees and shook berries down into the chill water. We sat with our feet in the water below the pool, cooling them from the march and eating the mulberries and I recall the faces of the moujahidin - fierceness melted by the moment's content. I recall jokes and laughter and an intense companionship and trust one in the other and of trust in these harsh mountains that rose purple from the valley and barred Russians in their tanks and APCs. Now the tanks and APCs and gunships are American and British – and the heroes I traveled with are terrorists.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
SCREW OUR SOLDIERS
I have been watching the Defense Debate in the House of Commons. Present are a mere half-dozen Labour MPs. This is the Party of Government that has sent our soldiers into battle after battle, too often with insufficient, ineffectual or unserviceable equipment. What must a soldier think as he sees those empty benches? A soldier back from Afghanistan? A soldier crippled by bomb attack on a snatch Landrover? A soldier with recent memories of lost companions? Companions who might have been saved were there sufficient helicopters?
There writes the Old Blimp again, the ex-cavalry officer off his bike...Who cares?
There writes the Old Blimp again, the ex-cavalry officer off his bike...Who cares?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
MISERY
Bernadette has been in agony for the past four days with an infected tooth. My brother and sister-in-law came to dinner last night - anniversary of my mother's death. Bernadette was brave in sitting through the meal before heading for bed on a cloud of painkillers.
BIKE TEST
A new journey begins with a drive to the Drivings Standards Association Test Pad at Gloucester. The Test Pad is a large tarred rectangle some 150 meters by 80. The Pad is patterned with different coloured cones and two speed gates. Steve of Acer Motorcycle Training will (maybe) coach me through the new SDA biker test that comes into effect on April 27. The SDA will test me in advance on April 2 so that I can describe what is entailed in an article for Motorcycle News.
The test is about control. It begins with the rider keeping pace with a pedestrian. Next comes a slalom and double 8. Then for the difficult bit - difficult for me. Ride the length of the pad and back, pass through a speed gate at 50 KPH and immediately swerve and come to a halt. I finally managed 40 KPH after six attempts. Speed never was my strong suit...
The test is about control. It begins with the rider keeping pace with a pedestrian. Next comes a slalom and double 8. Then for the difficult bit - difficult for me. Ride the length of the pad and back, pass through a speed gate at 50 KPH and immediately swerve and come to a halt. I finally managed 40 KPH after six attempts. Speed never was my strong suit...
Monday, March 16, 2009
SOUP
I love D J Kirkby. She wrote a more than generous review of OLD MAN ON A BIKE. Now she offers to exchange soup recipes: her Lotus Land for my Jerusalem artichoke.
Proper stock is the first essential - none of those vile powders or stock cubes made from God knows what. Mostly I use chicken stock - though I keep vegetable stock in the freezer for vegetarian guests. Chop and melt two shallots and two cloves of garlic in unsalted butter. Meanwhile peel and slice the Jerusalem artichokes and simmer the Jerusalem artichoke peelings in the stock for twenty minutes to concentrate the flavour, strain. Add the artichokes to the onion and garlic and cook gently for a few minutes before adding the stock. Simmer until the artichokes are soft. Blitz with a blender till smooth. Check the seasoning. Reheat before serving and stir in the creme fraiche.
Guests tend to eat a second serving so prepare plenty or whip their bowls away quickly.
Proper stock is the first essential - none of those vile powders or stock cubes made from God knows what. Mostly I use chicken stock - though I keep vegetable stock in the freezer for vegetarian guests. Chop and melt two shallots and two cloves of garlic in unsalted butter. Meanwhile peel and slice the Jerusalem artichokes and simmer the Jerusalem artichoke peelings in the stock for twenty minutes to concentrate the flavour, strain. Add the artichokes to the onion and garlic and cook gently for a few minutes before adding the stock. Simmer until the artichokes are soft. Blitz with a blender till smooth. Check the seasoning. Reheat before serving and stir in the creme fraiche.
Guests tend to eat a second serving so prepare plenty or whip their bowls away quickly.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
GRAVITAS
The USA has a Secretary of State. We Brits have a Foreign Secretary - same job, different title. The Foreign Secretary projects the public image of the nation. Like her or hate her, Hilary Clinton is impressive. I have been watching our Foreign Secretary on TV - David Milleband. He possesses the gravitas of a student at a Provincial University. No wonder the Russian Foreign Minister treated him with contempt.
Perhaps age has caught up with me....
Perhaps age has caught up with me....
JERUSALEM ARTICHOKE SOUP
Jerusalem artichoke soup is delicious. I used creme fraiche rather than cream, lighter and adds a gentle tang. Also proper chicken stock. Stock cubes are a negative.
HARPER COLLINS = MURDOCH
Harper Collins bought OLD MAN ON A BIKE after the bankruptcy of The Friday Project. Harper Collins have lost their copy of our contract. They have asked me to sign a new contract. My agent, Paul Marsh, has asked for a return of the foreign rights with which Harper Collins have done nothing. Harper Collins won't cooperate. The original contract with Harper Collins included an advance against royalties. They have never paid this advance. They admitted that I was leagally due the advance - however if I insisted on being paid, they would publish OLD MAN ON A BIKE as a cheap paper back. Harper Collins is part of the Murdoch Empire....
Meanwhile I have been cooking Jerusalem artichoke soup and a smoked haddock risotto for Father Dominic of Blackmore and Upton Parishes.
Meanwhile I have been cooking Jerusalem artichoke soup and a smoked haddock risotto for Father Dominic of Blackmore and Upton Parishes.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
CONFESSION
I have never taken a UK biker driving test. I have never ridden a bike in the UK. The weather has put me off. Our youngest son, Jed(19), claims that my car is his car. He has been working this winter at the Hotel Belles Piste in Araches la Frasse (Haute Savoye). Most days he snowboards from 10 am to 4 pm. He returns home at the end of April and will want my car to drive to mountain-board meets. Rather than argue ownership, I shall get a bike. A Honda 125, naturally. I am booked with the DSA to take the new test the first week in April. Monday I begin practicing. I am extremely nervous. Jed will mock the hell out of me if I fail.
So will Bernadette....
The photograph is of Jed out of his head. He calls it having fun. Mad...!
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
VISIT MEXICO AND DIE
I've been reading posts on Fodors Travel Forum warning of the dangers in traveling to Mexico - mostly US citizens scared by reports of kidnappings and narco wars.
Here is my post:
Aged 75, I rode my Honda 125 north through Mexico last year on my way back from Tierra del Fuego to New York. The route took me up the Pacific coast, east via Merida and Queretaro to the Sierra Gorda and north into Texas at Brownsville. I never felt in any danger.
Recently we have been watching the WIRE here in England on TV. Based on the evidence of this much acclaimed series,tourists should be warned against visiting the US, especially Philadelphia. Oh, and certain areas of Washington DC, Miami, Los Angeles etc etc etc. Random killings are common in all these cities, cops are corrupt, narco gangs rule the streets...
Or be sensible, travel, meet new people, encounter different cultures and enjoy yourselves. I am planning a ride round the Indian subcontinent for next winter and intend celebrating my 77th birthday in Nepal.
Cheers!
Here is my post:
Aged 75, I rode my Honda 125 north through Mexico last year on my way back from Tierra del Fuego to New York. The route took me up the Pacific coast, east via Merida and Queretaro to the Sierra Gorda and north into Texas at Brownsville. I never felt in any danger.
Recently we have been watching the WIRE here in England on TV. Based on the evidence of this much acclaimed series,tourists should be warned against visiting the US, especially Philadelphia. Oh, and certain areas of Washington DC, Miami, Los Angeles etc etc etc. Random killings are common in all these cities, cops are corrupt, narco gangs rule the streets...
Or be sensible, travel, meet new people, encounter different cultures and enjoy yourselves. I am planning a ride round the Indian subcontinent for next winter and intend celebrating my 77th birthday in Nepal.
Cheers!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
ELEGANT BRIT BLIMP
A biker on Horizonsunlimited suggests that bikers have the advantage of always looking scruffy - thus less of a temptation to bandits. I think of myself as moderately elegant, good, well-polished Church shoes, gloves, clean shirt. You know - an English Gentleman of a certain age
Though I lose confidence in this image when sprawled in the dirt beside the bike...
Friday, February 20, 2009
LEOMINSTER CLASSIC MC CLUB
WITH GRAHAM
B and I drove down to Warmley (near Bristol) yesterday evening for a VOYAGER CLUB biker evening at the Midland Spinner pub. Great group, very patient as I droned on for more than an hour. B says that I am improving as a speaker but need to cut the presentation by thirty minutes. Next outing is 8 pm on April 1 for the LEOMINSTER CLASSIC MC CLUB at the Bush Inn, Bush Bank, Canon Pyon. Hopefully B will agree to drive home so that I can indulge in a couple of pints!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
MUSSELS IN COCONUT
I celebrated my 76th birthday last week by cooking dinner for Bernadette and for my brother and sister-in-law and an old and dear friend, Sarah Duke/Richardet. Mussels in a coconut soup:
fresh chicken stock
lemon grass
kaffir lime leaves
garlic
red chilies
fresh coriander
Thai fish sauce
shitake mushrooms
coconut milk
Add a shrimp paste that I prepare in bulk and keep bottled in the fridge.
garlic
shallots
red chilies
shrimp paste
tamarind paste
Madeira sugar
Wonderful were my Argentine cousins visiting. Thinking of them, I chose a red Malbec from Mendoza, 2003.
No fat in the meal makes for easy washing up - no, we don't have a dish washer.
fresh chicken stock
lemon grass
kaffir lime leaves
garlic
red chilies
fresh coriander
Thai fish sauce
shitake mushrooms
coconut milk
Add a shrimp paste that I prepare in bulk and keep bottled in the fridge.
garlic
shallots
red chilies
shrimp paste
tamarind paste
Madeira sugar
Wonderful were my Argentine cousins visiting. Thinking of them, I chose a red Malbec from Mendoza, 2003.
No fat in the meal makes for easy washing up - no, we don't have a dish washer.
LIVE OFF THE LAND (OR POND)
DUCK TAGINE
Our bankers have misbehaved. Our political leaders have been indolent, ignorant or complicit. We ordinary citizens must economize. I have plucked a brace of duck shot by a neighbor and roasted the carcases for soup. I will cook for Bernadette this evening a tagine: wild duck breast seasoned with coriander, cinnamon, cummin and black pepper and served with honeyed apricots on a bed of seasoned couscous and grilled aubergines.
Next week I will lie hidden in the shrubbery at my brother's and shoot rabbit off his lawns. Wild rabbit pie is good. A blanquette of wild rabbit and forest mushrooms seasoned with rosemary is delicious. Come Spring I must get the rod out and sort through the fly box. Building a smoke house would be a sound economy, smoked trout...and we need to buy a truck of old mushroom compost for the vegetable garden.
Meanwhile I am studying maps for a ride next winter.
Our bankers have misbehaved. Our political leaders have been indolent, ignorant or complicit. We ordinary citizens must economize. I have plucked a brace of duck shot by a neighbor and roasted the carcases for soup. I will cook for Bernadette this evening a tagine: wild duck breast seasoned with coriander, cinnamon, cummin and black pepper and served with honeyed apricots on a bed of seasoned couscous and grilled aubergines.
Next week I will lie hidden in the shrubbery at my brother's and shoot rabbit off his lawns. Wild rabbit pie is good. A blanquette of wild rabbit and forest mushrooms seasoned with rosemary is delicious. Come Spring I must get the rod out and sort through the fly box. Building a smoke house would be a sound economy, smoked trout...and we need to buy a truck of old mushroom compost for the vegetable garden.
Meanwhile I am studying maps for a ride next winter.
Monday, February 09, 2009
ACE CAFE
I drove down with Bernadette to London yesterday,to the Ace Cafe, to give a presentation at a biker meet organized by Horizon Unlimited and sign copies of OLD MAN ON A BIKE. Snow threatened and I spoke to a dwindling crowd. I also spoke directly after a brilliant and humorous speaker - not good for my confidence! However it was great to catch up with friends and meet people whom I had only met previously on the Web and great for Bernadette to meet people who have been only names to her. Especial thanks go to Glynn Roberts for the hours he put in organizing the meet and to Andrew at www.Londonbikers for dropping by.
We hit heavy snow on the way back to Herefordshire. We were on four wheels. Glynn was heading further north on his bike. Good to hear to day from him this morning that he got home safe.
We hit heavy snow on the way back to Herefordshire. We were on four wheels. Glynn was heading further north on his bike. Good to hear to day from him this morning that he got home safe.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
motofoto.cc
My thanks to Joe Berk:
Readers seeking a US review of OLD MAN ON A BIKE can hit the motofoto.cc button
Readers seeking a US review of OLD MAN ON A BIKE can hit the motofoto.cc button
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
AMAZON CANADA
Brit publishing contracts do not include the USA in the English speaking world. OLD MAN ON A BIKE is available on every Amazon other than Amazon.com - Dutch, French, German, Spanish, various Scandinavian varieties and all those countries that were or are part of the British Commonwealth
Readers in the US can buy the book on Amazon.ca - Canadian Amazon. Amazon.ca sells the book for Ca$17.46. It also lists a bookstore in New Jersey that offers the book at US$11
Readers in the US can buy the book on Amazon.ca - Canadian Amazon. Amazon.ca sells the book for Ca$17.46. It also lists a bookstore in New Jersey that offers the book at US$11
Monday, January 19, 2009
KIND COMPLIMENTS FROM INDIA
Hitting this link takes readers to an Indian biker site. Members have been commenting with kindness on my Hispanic American journey. I drove a VW jeep in the early sixties from London to India and down to Rameswaram. I haven't been back for 45 years. Yet I remain fascinated by the country: the people, music, architecture...And the delicious food! Those kind messages from India's bikers prod me into considering a ride this winter, exchange the greyness of winter England for Indian sunshine - and a multitude of spiced prawns. Go for it, Old Man, go for it....
Friday, January 16, 2009
GUARDIAN TRAVEL
For those interested, here is the piece published by The Guardian newspaper. The Title and subtitle are theirs:
WHY YOU ARE NEVER TOO OLD FOR AN ADVENTURE
Flash wheels and support vehicles are for wimps, as 73-year-old Simon Gandolfi proves when he picks up a 'pizza delivery bike' in Mexico and heads down south
Why would a reasonably sane man in his mid seventies ride the length of Hispanic America on a small motorcycle - a man who is overweight, suffered two minor heart attacks, has a bad back and survives on a small pension? Age has much to do with it. My wife is younger by almost thirty years. I suspect that our late-teenage sons find me an embarrassment. I am mistaken for their granddad - or an old tramp. And my tales of past travel bore them.
So an attempt to prove to myself and to my family that I can hack it? And to others of my age that solo travel remains possible and an enlivening experience.
I chose a Honda 125 for the journey, the original pizza delivery bike. I could buy it new in Mexico for aproximately £1200. Built in Brazil, spares are available throughout Hispanic America; it cruises 120 miles to the gallon; my legs have sufficient strength to hold it upright and I can lift it after a fall. Nor did I desire a big bike. Big bikes create a wealth barrier and colour people's perception of who you are. I was traveling for the people...
Finance and time governed my preparations. I bought a thick jumper and a pair of strong Church's walking shoes in a Hereford charity shop, packed thermals and a six month supply of heart medication. Insurance? For a biker in his seventies? I don't think so!
A cheap ticket with AerLingus took me to Boston followed by Amtrak south. I have treated the United States on past visits as wide-spread islands: New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Dallas. What land lay between? Mostly flat was the answer, innumerable small towns of identical clapboard houses, rust-spotted gas guzzlers and monster pickups in the yard. I remarked to a fellow passenger on the United States flag flying outside almost every house.
“The poor live close by the railway track. Their kids are in the Military.”
Arkansas was the surprise. I had imagined dirt farms from Grapes of Wrath.
Reality was green hills and magnificent trees.
Finally Dallas and the home of an old friend, a true Texan. He and three fellow Good Ol' Boys planned a weekend on monster bikes. I followed in a Hummer as baggage man.
Galileo claimed the World was round; he had never cruised the Texas Panhandle. The road runs flat and straight, not a house, no animals, not even a tree. The boys on the bikes rode in a bunch. Back home we would fill the road. In the Panhandle we were minute pieces in a board game. The sun sparkling on helmets was an electronic ray. Reach the end of the board and we fall off...
I intended traveling by express coach south from Dallas to Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico, 1200 kilometers, 36 hours, US$115. The Good Ol' Boys thought me mad. A bus driven by a Mexican – tantamount to suicide. And riding a tiny bike through countries plagued by banditry! Plus crooked cops and corrupt border officials...
A new bike awaited me at the Honda agency in Veracruz. I was confronted by the first official when registering the bike. Proof of residence was obligatory. A utilities bill was sufficient. The registrar produced his own electricity bill and called me Grandfather. Keep to the main roads. Elsewhere there are bandits...
I took the bike for a preliminary outing to Old Veracruz and the ruins of Hernando Cortes' first house. From here Cortes set out to conquer Mexico. Aztec armies were a doddle when compared with traffic on the urban freeway. This was my first ride in forty years. Five kilometers and my thumb and thigh muscles cramped. The project was ridiculous. Time to admit defeat. Return home, tail between my legs. Face the mockery of friends and neighbours...
I was saved by meditation. Om never did it for me – not even in the mystic 60s. At a riverside restaurant in Old Veracruz, I meditated on a dish of perfectly prepared prawns with chili - camerones el diablo. I breathed the familiar thick, over-ripe tropical scent of garlic and onion, fried fish, fruit, rotting leaves and rich damp earth. A boat chugged up-river, birds sung, children chased each other, a fun trio played Mexican weep music. Bliss...
I was fortunate in Veracruz to meet a kindly Federal police officer with extensive knowledge of the roads. He suggested a suitable route for an elderly novice: the first day south along the coast to San Andres Tuxlas, straight road, gentle gradients; a second day of low hills followed by a stretch of highway to Tuxtepec; third day over the Sierra on Route 175 and my first mountain pass, 60 meters above sea level to 3200. Call me, he said, call me when you reach Oaxaca.
I stopped three times on the climb to add clothing. Hairpin followed hairpin, rain forest gave way to pine. Could the bike cope? Could I cope? Was the knife pain in my chest cardialgic, muscular or imagination?
My legs trembled as I dismounted at a mud brick cafe at the head of the pass. The woman owner set a chair in the sun, poured me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and shouted to her daughter to check the hen house for eggs. An old bus disgorged companionable faces. Where was I going? All the way south, I said - and, for the first time believed that I might succeed.
Oaxaca is 16th and 17th century Hispanic Colonial glory in green quarry stone, luminescent after rainfalls. The Jesuit temple is austere beauty. I discovered companionship in a side chapel: the familiar names of our English Jesuits engraved amongst the role of martyrs: Owen, Oldcorne, Ashley, Campion, Arrowsmith...
And I reported to the Veracruz Federale that I had arrived safely.
I thought you would. Call me from Ushuaia.
I recall a perfect dawn on Mexico's Pacific coast. From Tehuantepec an excellent highway unwound west through hills speckled with white blossom of frangipani and splashed with creepers of deep rose and brilliant blue. Rain left a sharp clean taste to the air. I glimpsed, between the hills, sea and white surf curling on golden sand; vultures and buzzards floated overhead. I rode at ease amongst memories of my Bultaco trail bike in the Ibiza of the 60s.
Indulging in memories is dangerous. My Guatemalan friend, Eugenio, owns a Maya hill tower overlooking the Rio Dulce. “The track's bad,” he warned. “I'll run you up later in the pickup.” As if I was an old man in need of help!
Proud in my Ibiza memories, I kicked the Honda alive. Minutes later I lay beneath the bike, my right leg frying on the exhaust pipe. The burns became a battle ground between modern pharma and ancient brujaria, antibiotics versus jungle poultices,
Falls are unavoidable. My second came on Costa Rica's Nicoya Peninsula, a steep gravel road. Diners gathered round as a doctor scrubbed and sewed my right hand at a table in a village restaurant. The doctor's wife sat beside me. En route to a party, the wife wore a minimal mini-skirt. Look down, I was confronted by her thighs - dangerous. Nor did I enjoy watching the doctor at his work. So I sat with my eyes shut and concentrated on the kitchen scents of garlic and grilled snapper.
Two days rest in a cabin behind the general store in San Francisco Coyote and I was off again, up over the mountain spine, Pacific Coast to the Caribbean - and a third tumble, this time on a United Fruit Company railway bridge a few miles into Panama. The bridge is a hundred meters long. Planks either side of the rails form the roadway. The planks were slippery and uneven. Some were missing. Much of the safety rail had been torn away. I panicked and deliberately tipped the bike inward between the rails. Truckers rescued me and delivered me and the Honda to the next town, Almirante. Only three mini-catastrophes in 26000 kilometers, not too incompetent...
The Chief of Customs at the Honduran border was the only official to hold me up. He insisted I watch a France/Mexico football International on TV in his office – and drink his beer. I demurred at the third bottle. Copan was my destination. Ten kilometers, Old Man. You can slide that far.
Nor can I complain of the law. Lost in Bogota, two biker cops led me 10 kilometers to the highway with blue lights and sirens. Traffic police nurse-maided me through the coastal desert of Peru in a sandstorm and treated me to lunch. A police band in Bolivia played me out of town. A female police officer in Salta, Argentina, kissed me on both cheeks.
Dangers? Colon, Panama, was dangerous. Police armed for a war zone patrol in pairs and wirelessed backup to escort me a single block to a bank. And I met a Chinese American biker who had been robbed at knife point. He and I were seeking passage round the Darien Gap. We shipped on a small banana boat only to discover that the crew were smugglers. We had paid to be delivered to Cartagena. They dumped us on a beach in the middle of the night. We were in Colombia illegaly. The nearest town, San Bernardo, was an hour's ride down a mud track. A further six hours brought us to Cartagena to be chided by the Head of Immigration: “Safer for them to have cut your throat. Have you learned nothing in your seventy years?”
Colombia has an image problem created by Hollywood. Scenery is jungle. Men sweat and wear grease in their hair. Intrepid US heroes (Harrison Ford) fight cocaine cartels. Heading inland I rode through a vast parkland of great trees, lush paddocks, clean streams, fat cattle, glossy horses – followed by days of mountains and upland pastures reminiscent of our English Lake District.
And such urban architecture – from the simplicity of small, cobble-and-whitewash towns to the 17th century glories of Cartagena and Popayan. Founded in the 16th century, I find Popayan the most perfect of Hispanic Colonial towns. Streets of baroque houses and mansions remain unblemished by developers. Cathedral and churches possess a serene beauty.
Ecuador boasts the glories of Quito and, at the Museo Nacional, Hispanic America's greatest collection of pre-Colombian ceramics - and I went white-water rafting at the foot of an exploding volcano. Peru and Bolivia are the tarns and fells of the Alto Plano, snowy peaks and the fifth day of a miners' picket that had closed the highway. The miners welcomed the grandfather. We sat on a grass bank, sipped mate and photographed each other.
Argentina is Salta and the culture shock of finding myself in a seemingly European city, the desert to Mendoza, delicious wine, huge steaks, the massive barrier of the Andes, the extraordinary clarity of light in Patagonia and, in driving sleet, surprise at startling a flock of green parrots from trees along a river bank.
Now returned to the safety of my beloved Herefordshire, I recall fragments of conversation:
The speaker at a millionaires' Dallas breakfast club warning of a billion and a half Muslims in the world - everyone of them taught from birth to hate and kill Americans.
A Mexican businessman in Veracruz commenting on race: The only pure bloods are horses.
A mid-fifties Californian surfer with chemically recalibrated brain insisting that seven-foot green aliens had been discovered in sarcophagi beneath Maya pyramids.
A bench in the Cathedral Square, Panama, and an elderly schoolteacher weeps as she recounts the US invasion: None of the captains were killed. Only poor people. My neigbours were all killed. The youngest girl was six. The grandmother was seventy three. And my sister...
My Chinese-American companion on the smugglers' boat from Colon to Colombia remarks at every setback or danger Simon, we wanted an adventure...And, with splendid Chinese elitism, discounts pre-Colombian art as Two thousand years of bad ceramics.
A small town restaurant on the Bolivian Alto Plano, two Bolivian men at the next table. One asks my nationality: Your Blair is a great liar.
Porto San Julian, Patagonia, an elderly matron at the monument to the heroes of the Argentine airforce in the Falklands/Malvinas War: It was a politicians' war. There were no heroes, only victims.
Also in Patagonia, sheltering with two cops from a freezing gale in the lee of their truck: The whore of a Government forgot to pay the gas bill.
Finally the manager of the Honda Agency in Ushuaia: We've been expecting you, Senor Gandolfi.
My journey was complete, six months on the road, 26000 kilometers, a maximum ascent (in Bolivia) of 4700 meters. Sleet, ice, gales and tropical storms were momentary hardships amongst perfect day after perfect day. I was treated universally, even in Colon, and by officialdom and commonality, always with true kindness and consideration. I slept in small family hotels recommended by locals, invariably a room with bath. Room rates varied country to country: US$18 in Veracruz, half that in Bolivia.
I come of a recusant family and was educated at Catholic schools. In the sublime churches of Hispanic America I discovered how deeply imbued I am with the culture of Catholicism...And, riding alone across those vast spaces, uncovered within myself an unfashionable admiration for those scant bands of Spaniards, the Conquistadors. They were small men of minimal education and many superstitions. Judge them how you wish but never doubt their extraordinary courage and imagination. And they differed in one essential from the British Founding Fathers of the United States. The Conquistadors intermarried with the indigenous population...Yes, including Hernando Cortes.
WHY YOU ARE NEVER TOO OLD FOR AN ADVENTURE
Flash wheels and support vehicles are for wimps, as 73-year-old Simon Gandolfi proves when he picks up a 'pizza delivery bike' in Mexico and heads down south
Why would a reasonably sane man in his mid seventies ride the length of Hispanic America on a small motorcycle - a man who is overweight, suffered two minor heart attacks, has a bad back and survives on a small pension? Age has much to do with it. My wife is younger by almost thirty years. I suspect that our late-teenage sons find me an embarrassment. I am mistaken for their granddad - or an old tramp. And my tales of past travel bore them.
So an attempt to prove to myself and to my family that I can hack it? And to others of my age that solo travel remains possible and an enlivening experience.
I chose a Honda 125 for the journey, the original pizza delivery bike. I could buy it new in Mexico for aproximately £1200. Built in Brazil, spares are available throughout Hispanic America; it cruises 120 miles to the gallon; my legs have sufficient strength to hold it upright and I can lift it after a fall. Nor did I desire a big bike. Big bikes create a wealth barrier and colour people's perception of who you are. I was traveling for the people...
Finance and time governed my preparations. I bought a thick jumper and a pair of strong Church's walking shoes in a Hereford charity shop, packed thermals and a six month supply of heart medication. Insurance? For a biker in his seventies? I don't think so!
A cheap ticket with AerLingus took me to Boston followed by Amtrak south. I have treated the United States on past visits as wide-spread islands: New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Dallas. What land lay between? Mostly flat was the answer, innumerable small towns of identical clapboard houses, rust-spotted gas guzzlers and monster pickups in the yard. I remarked to a fellow passenger on the United States flag flying outside almost every house.
“The poor live close by the railway track. Their kids are in the Military.”
Arkansas was the surprise. I had imagined dirt farms from Grapes of Wrath.
Reality was green hills and magnificent trees.
Finally Dallas and the home of an old friend, a true Texan. He and three fellow Good Ol' Boys planned a weekend on monster bikes. I followed in a Hummer as baggage man.
Galileo claimed the World was round; he had never cruised the Texas Panhandle. The road runs flat and straight, not a house, no animals, not even a tree. The boys on the bikes rode in a bunch. Back home we would fill the road. In the Panhandle we were minute pieces in a board game. The sun sparkling on helmets was an electronic ray. Reach the end of the board and we fall off...
I intended traveling by express coach south from Dallas to Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico, 1200 kilometers, 36 hours, US$115. The Good Ol' Boys thought me mad. A bus driven by a Mexican – tantamount to suicide. And riding a tiny bike through countries plagued by banditry! Plus crooked cops and corrupt border officials...
A new bike awaited me at the Honda agency in Veracruz. I was confronted by the first official when registering the bike. Proof of residence was obligatory. A utilities bill was sufficient. The registrar produced his own electricity bill and called me Grandfather. Keep to the main roads. Elsewhere there are bandits...
I took the bike for a preliminary outing to Old Veracruz and the ruins of Hernando Cortes' first house. From here Cortes set out to conquer Mexico. Aztec armies were a doddle when compared with traffic on the urban freeway. This was my first ride in forty years. Five kilometers and my thumb and thigh muscles cramped. The project was ridiculous. Time to admit defeat. Return home, tail between my legs. Face the mockery of friends and neighbours...
I was saved by meditation. Om never did it for me – not even in the mystic 60s. At a riverside restaurant in Old Veracruz, I meditated on a dish of perfectly prepared prawns with chili - camerones el diablo. I breathed the familiar thick, over-ripe tropical scent of garlic and onion, fried fish, fruit, rotting leaves and rich damp earth. A boat chugged up-river, birds sung, children chased each other, a fun trio played Mexican weep music. Bliss...
I was fortunate in Veracruz to meet a kindly Federal police officer with extensive knowledge of the roads. He suggested a suitable route for an elderly novice: the first day south along the coast to San Andres Tuxlas, straight road, gentle gradients; a second day of low hills followed by a stretch of highway to Tuxtepec; third day over the Sierra on Route 175 and my first mountain pass, 60 meters above sea level to 3200. Call me, he said, call me when you reach Oaxaca.
I stopped three times on the climb to add clothing. Hairpin followed hairpin, rain forest gave way to pine. Could the bike cope? Could I cope? Was the knife pain in my chest cardialgic, muscular or imagination?
My legs trembled as I dismounted at a mud brick cafe at the head of the pass. The woman owner set a chair in the sun, poured me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and shouted to her daughter to check the hen house for eggs. An old bus disgorged companionable faces. Where was I going? All the way south, I said - and, for the first time believed that I might succeed.
Oaxaca is 16th and 17th century Hispanic Colonial glory in green quarry stone, luminescent after rainfalls. The Jesuit temple is austere beauty. I discovered companionship in a side chapel: the familiar names of our English Jesuits engraved amongst the role of martyrs: Owen, Oldcorne, Ashley, Campion, Arrowsmith...
And I reported to the Veracruz Federale that I had arrived safely.
I thought you would. Call me from Ushuaia.
I recall a perfect dawn on Mexico's Pacific coast. From Tehuantepec an excellent highway unwound west through hills speckled with white blossom of frangipani and splashed with creepers of deep rose and brilliant blue. Rain left a sharp clean taste to the air. I glimpsed, between the hills, sea and white surf curling on golden sand; vultures and buzzards floated overhead. I rode at ease amongst memories of my Bultaco trail bike in the Ibiza of the 60s.
Indulging in memories is dangerous. My Guatemalan friend, Eugenio, owns a Maya hill tower overlooking the Rio Dulce. “The track's bad,” he warned. “I'll run you up later in the pickup.” As if I was an old man in need of help!
Proud in my Ibiza memories, I kicked the Honda alive. Minutes later I lay beneath the bike, my right leg frying on the exhaust pipe. The burns became a battle ground between modern pharma and ancient brujaria, antibiotics versus jungle poultices,
Falls are unavoidable. My second came on Costa Rica's Nicoya Peninsula, a steep gravel road. Diners gathered round as a doctor scrubbed and sewed my right hand at a table in a village restaurant. The doctor's wife sat beside me. En route to a party, the wife wore a minimal mini-skirt. Look down, I was confronted by her thighs - dangerous. Nor did I enjoy watching the doctor at his work. So I sat with my eyes shut and concentrated on the kitchen scents of garlic and grilled snapper.
Two days rest in a cabin behind the general store in San Francisco Coyote and I was off again, up over the mountain spine, Pacific Coast to the Caribbean - and a third tumble, this time on a United Fruit Company railway bridge a few miles into Panama. The bridge is a hundred meters long. Planks either side of the rails form the roadway. The planks were slippery and uneven. Some were missing. Much of the safety rail had been torn away. I panicked and deliberately tipped the bike inward between the rails. Truckers rescued me and delivered me and the Honda to the next town, Almirante. Only three mini-catastrophes in 26000 kilometers, not too incompetent...
The Chief of Customs at the Honduran border was the only official to hold me up. He insisted I watch a France/Mexico football International on TV in his office – and drink his beer. I demurred at the third bottle. Copan was my destination. Ten kilometers, Old Man. You can slide that far.
Nor can I complain of the law. Lost in Bogota, two biker cops led me 10 kilometers to the highway with blue lights and sirens. Traffic police nurse-maided me through the coastal desert of Peru in a sandstorm and treated me to lunch. A police band in Bolivia played me out of town. A female police officer in Salta, Argentina, kissed me on both cheeks.
Dangers? Colon, Panama, was dangerous. Police armed for a war zone patrol in pairs and wirelessed backup to escort me a single block to a bank. And I met a Chinese American biker who had been robbed at knife point. He and I were seeking passage round the Darien Gap. We shipped on a small banana boat only to discover that the crew were smugglers. We had paid to be delivered to Cartagena. They dumped us on a beach in the middle of the night. We were in Colombia illegaly. The nearest town, San Bernardo, was an hour's ride down a mud track. A further six hours brought us to Cartagena to be chided by the Head of Immigration: “Safer for them to have cut your throat. Have you learned nothing in your seventy years?”
Colombia has an image problem created by Hollywood. Scenery is jungle. Men sweat and wear grease in their hair. Intrepid US heroes (Harrison Ford) fight cocaine cartels. Heading inland I rode through a vast parkland of great trees, lush paddocks, clean streams, fat cattle, glossy horses – followed by days of mountains and upland pastures reminiscent of our English Lake District.
And such urban architecture – from the simplicity of small, cobble-and-whitewash towns to the 17th century glories of Cartagena and Popayan. Founded in the 16th century, I find Popayan the most perfect of Hispanic Colonial towns. Streets of baroque houses and mansions remain unblemished by developers. Cathedral and churches possess a serene beauty.
Ecuador boasts the glories of Quito and, at the Museo Nacional, Hispanic America's greatest collection of pre-Colombian ceramics - and I went white-water rafting at the foot of an exploding volcano. Peru and Bolivia are the tarns and fells of the Alto Plano, snowy peaks and the fifth day of a miners' picket that had closed the highway. The miners welcomed the grandfather. We sat on a grass bank, sipped mate and photographed each other.
Argentina is Salta and the culture shock of finding myself in a seemingly European city, the desert to Mendoza, delicious wine, huge steaks, the massive barrier of the Andes, the extraordinary clarity of light in Patagonia and, in driving sleet, surprise at startling a flock of green parrots from trees along a river bank.
Now returned to the safety of my beloved Herefordshire, I recall fragments of conversation:
The speaker at a millionaires' Dallas breakfast club warning of a billion and a half Muslims in the world - everyone of them taught from birth to hate and kill Americans.
A Mexican businessman in Veracruz commenting on race: The only pure bloods are horses.
A mid-fifties Californian surfer with chemically recalibrated brain insisting that seven-foot green aliens had been discovered in sarcophagi beneath Maya pyramids.
A bench in the Cathedral Square, Panama, and an elderly schoolteacher weeps as she recounts the US invasion: None of the captains were killed. Only poor people. My neigbours were all killed. The youngest girl was six. The grandmother was seventy three. And my sister...
My Chinese-American companion on the smugglers' boat from Colon to Colombia remarks at every setback or danger Simon, we wanted an adventure...And, with splendid Chinese elitism, discounts pre-Colombian art as Two thousand years of bad ceramics.
A small town restaurant on the Bolivian Alto Plano, two Bolivian men at the next table. One asks my nationality: Your Blair is a great liar.
Porto San Julian, Patagonia, an elderly matron at the monument to the heroes of the Argentine airforce in the Falklands/Malvinas War: It was a politicians' war. There were no heroes, only victims.
Also in Patagonia, sheltering with two cops from a freezing gale in the lee of their truck: The whore of a Government forgot to pay the gas bill.
Finally the manager of the Honda Agency in Ushuaia: We've been expecting you, Senor Gandolfi.
My journey was complete, six months on the road, 26000 kilometers, a maximum ascent (in Bolivia) of 4700 meters. Sleet, ice, gales and tropical storms were momentary hardships amongst perfect day after perfect day. I was treated universally, even in Colon, and by officialdom and commonality, always with true kindness and consideration. I slept in small family hotels recommended by locals, invariably a room with bath. Room rates varied country to country: US$18 in Veracruz, half that in Bolivia.
I come of a recusant family and was educated at Catholic schools. In the sublime churches of Hispanic America I discovered how deeply imbued I am with the culture of Catholicism...And, riding alone across those vast spaces, uncovered within myself an unfashionable admiration for those scant bands of Spaniards, the Conquistadors. They were small men of minimal education and many superstitions. Judge them how you wish but never doubt their extraordinary courage and imagination. And they differed in one essential from the British Founding Fathers of the United States. The Conquistadors intermarried with the indigenous population...Yes, including Hernando Cortes.
MOVERS AND SHAKERS
OLD MAN ON A BIKE reached No 1 in Movers & Shakers on Amazon UK at the weekend and No. 2 in travel writing sales. The Guardian did the trick. I have also been invited to be a guest speaker at a Literary Festival in May. A dozen of my books have been published over the years. The Literary Festival is a first. Yelling Yipeee would be unseemly in a man of my advanced years...!
FESTIVITIES
Christmas and New Year are gone. The travel editor at the The Guardian telephoned the week prior to the festivities: would I write a piece covering the southern leg of my American excursion? For when? January 2nd. How many words? 2000. So much for the holidays! I E-mailed the piece on New Year's Day. Sorting photographs took a further few days. The Guardian did me proud. They published the piece last Saturday, January 10, as a three page spread in the travel section.
Friday, December 19, 2008
LEDBURY, HEREFORDSHIRE
Ledbury's Mayor and the Town Crier watch as I sign copies of OLD MAN ON A BIKE in the Three Counties Bookshop. I am dyslectic. How embarrassing to make a spelling mistake in front of such august witnesses!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
POSTERS
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN IN PERU (alias The Mobile Blimp)
Kind people have been posting messages on this Blog. Amongst their number, Gemma, Hubert Kriegel, Rob, Greg Funnell, D J Kirkby, John McClane and an Englishman in Japan. Thank you, a very happy Christmas and a safe New Year. For bikers (Hubert and his sidecar), ride safe and may all your falls be gentle,
simon
Kind people have been posting messages on this Blog. Amongst their number, Gemma, Hubert Kriegel, Rob, Greg Funnell, D J Kirkby, John McClane and an Englishman in Japan. Thank you, a very happy Christmas and a safe New Year. For bikers (Hubert and his sidecar), ride safe and may all your falls be gentle,
simon
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
HEREFORD TIMES
A journalist on the Hereford Times asked for my New Year wishes. Difficult not to be pompous...as with featuring on the radio program, Desert Island Discs. Do those famous people really listen to both Gregorian chant and the most obscure of Dylan albums?
These are the wishes I sent to the Hereford Times:
Wishes for the New Year? Health for my family and myself: though 76, I plan a further six month solo journey by motorcycle, preferably not to Eternity.
On the home front, I wish for leaders who boast less in good times, accept responsibility in bad and are keener students of history.
On the world stage, I wish for the safe and speedy withdrawal of our soldiers from Afghanistan. I am familiar with the country and its people having lived in Kabul in the days of the King and ridden on horseback with moujahidin during the Russian occupation. Afghans were our heroes then. We are their enemy now.
Lastly (or firstly), writers are obsessive egotists: our greatest wish is that our books sell well.
These are the wishes I sent to the Hereford Times:
Wishes for the New Year? Health for my family and myself: though 76, I plan a further six month solo journey by motorcycle, preferably not to Eternity.
On the home front, I wish for leaders who boast less in good times, accept responsibility in bad and are keener students of history.
On the world stage, I wish for the safe and speedy withdrawal of our soldiers from Afghanistan. I am familiar with the country and its people having lived in Kabul in the days of the King and ridden on horseback with moujahidin during the Russian occupation. Afghans were our heroes then. We are their enemy now.
Lastly (or firstly), writers are obsessive egotists: our greatest wish is that our books sell well.
EMPTY NEST
Our youngest son, Jedediah, has flown the nest. I drove him to Gatwick airport from whence he flew to Geneva and continued by road to a small resort in the French Haute Savoye where he will work in a small ski hotel and perfect his snowboarding. He will be away five months. Our home feels very empty without him. I worry that he will hurt himself on the mountains.
He is worried by my health. I have promised to lose weight.
He is worried by my health. I have promised to lose weight.
LEDBURY, HEREFORDSHIRE
Ledbury is a small charming town once famous for its cattle market (Herefords, of course). Bernadette and I were married in the Tudor market house. New Year approaches. People are out there buying Christmas presents. OLD MAN ON A BIKE is a fine stocking-filler and readers enjoy having a copy signed by a local author. One of the two books shops in Ledbury, BOOKS & MAPS, has sold 30 copies; I signed a further 14 for them yesterday. I did a public signing last Saturday in the other shop. We ran out of books (an order for fresh stock hadn't arrived). However I had my photograph taken with the mayor and the town crier which I will post in due course.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
GRATITUDE
Having readers (or listeners) leave comments here is a reward only equaled by encounters on the journey. Thank you all. I am an extremely fortunate old man...
Monday, December 01, 2008
EXCESS BAGGAGE
Sandi Toksvig, a great traveler, presents the BBC Radio 4 travel program, Excess Baggage. The program is recorded at Broadcasting House, London, on Fridays and broadcast on Saturdays at 10 am. London is our capital and traveling to London is always up - or so I was taught. I was also taught to judge men by their shoes and to wear proper leather, properly polished. I mentioned on Excess Baggage that I wore a good pair of Church's sensible English walking shoes for the ride south from Mexico to Tierra del Fuego. I wore the same shoes when traveling up to London. I mention the shoes and traveling up to London because such habits mark me as old-fashioned or out of date - as does my accent. I listened to the program on Saturday morning. I sound (to me) like an Old Blimp. My son, Joshuah (22), attempts to reassure me. He claims that people will find me a charming rarity, relic from bygone times.
WEDDINGS AND DAMP EYES
Weddings are private - the emotion they arouse. I wept at my daughter's wedding last month - wept with love and with joy at her happiness. Enough...
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
OLD MAN ON A BIKE, HarperCollins UK
AMAZON.CO.UK carries a couple of kind reviews. Read at OLD MAN ON A BIKE:
Sunday, November 16, 2008
METROPOLITAN STUD
Late Fall in Dutchess County, NY: cloud-skimmed sky, hills cloaked in gray woodland, splashes of golden willow, patches of dry corn, mares in paddocks of faded green, wood pigeons on the barn roof,...
No days of rest on a horse farm. Michael, Shane on his back, marches passed on morning inspection. Overheard, the lilting Spanish from Mexican farm-hands freshening straw in the stallion pens...
No days of rest on a horse farm. Michael, Shane on his back, marches passed on morning inspection. Overheard, the lilting Spanish from Mexican farm-hands freshening straw in the stallion pens...
Friday, November 14, 2008
STREAMERS OF GEESE AGAINST A GREY SKY
Dutchess County, New York, mares stand close and munch hay together in the paddock below the barn; drizzle softens hillsides of naked woodland; sky is layers of soft greys; long streamers of geese fly south; my grandson does his lion imitation; my daughter beams with pride. Mothers are like that - thinking their kids remarkable. Frankly, crawling is no big deal. Nor is giving the occasional roar.
I see Shane, ten months, through unprejudiced and unemotional male eyes. He is loving and totally lovable, extraordinarily beautiful, a natural comic and possessor of an intense intelligence - in fact much like his Mom.
I am not certain yet as to whether Shane is an oracle.
Charlie Boo (my grandson back in England) is an oracle - though his forecasts of the future are not absolutely reliable. However, this may be my misinterpretation of Charlie's reading of the runes. He is equally wonderful in all other ways and has an equally wonderful mother. The Dads are OK too...
I see Shane, ten months, through unprejudiced and unemotional male eyes. He is loving and totally lovable, extraordinarily beautiful, a natural comic and possessor of an intense intelligence - in fact much like his Mom.
I am not certain yet as to whether Shane is an oracle.
Charlie Boo (my grandson back in England) is an oracle - though his forecasts of the future are not absolutely reliable. However, this may be my misinterpretation of Charlie's reading of the runes. He is equally wonderful in all other ways and has an equally wonderful mother. The Dads are OK too...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
GRAND CENTRAL OYSTER BAR
My daughter lives in Dutchess County, New York. I can ride Amtrak from Pen Station or Metro-North from Grand Central. Amtrak is faster and more comfortable. It is also more expensive. I take Metro-North and save fifteen dollars. Grand Central is one of the world's great rail stations. The oyster bar at Grand Central is one of the World's great restaurants. Fifteen dollars buys half a dozen Bluepoint oysters plus tip.
There is no senior discount on the bus from Kennedy to Grand Central. Heading back to Kennedy I travel half price. The senior discount plus the saving on Metro-North pays for a full dozen Bluepoints.
My daughter says that I haven't saved a dime. However, she doesn't eat oysters.
I claim to have eaten a dozen and a half Bluepoints free.
Possibly a similar logic and discipline to mine has smashed the World's economy.
There is no senior discount on the bus from Kennedy to Grand Central. Heading back to Kennedy I travel half price. The senior discount plus the saving on Metro-North pays for a full dozen Bluepoints.
My daughter says that I haven't saved a dime. However, she doesn't eat oysters.
I claim to have eaten a dozen and a half Bluepoints free.
Possibly a similar logic and discipline to mine has smashed the World's economy.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
BEWARE AIRPORT SECURITY
I flew AerLingus back from New York to Birmingham (England) earlier in the year, transiting at Dublin. My biker boots are too big to pack. I was wearing them. At Dublin, I had to pass through Security a second time – no chairs at the security gate. I had to sit on the floor to drag the boots off - undignified! And worse...
BEWARE(a warning that Tax Free shops at airports don't give): I bought a large bottle of rum for Bernadette at Kennedy. Dublin Security confiscated it.
Who got to drink the booze? I hope they got sick, threw up and were kicked out of the house by their spouses....
Meanwhile here I am back in the US at my daughter's home, playing with my grandson.
People here ask where they can buy OLD MAN ON A BIKE. The book isn't available yet in the US. http://www.amazon.uk.co or http://www.amazon.ca and most good British bookshops have it in stock. HarperCollins Australia have it listed for December 1.
BEWARE(a warning that Tax Free shops at airports don't give): I bought a large bottle of rum for Bernadette at Kennedy. Dublin Security confiscated it.
Who got to drink the booze? I hope they got sick, threw up and were kicked out of the house by their spouses....
Meanwhile here I am back in the US at my daughter's home, playing with my grandson.
People here ask where they can buy OLD MAN ON A BIKE. The book isn't available yet in the US. http://www.amazon.uk.co or http://www.amazon.ca and most good British bookshops have it in stock. HarperCollins Australia have it listed for December 1.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
HEATHROW HADES - US PRIDE
Flying was slow in the fifties and DC3s had few creature comforts. However there was no demand that you be at the airport three hours before take-off. Three hours in the car to Heathrow, three hours in the terminal: I am exhausted already. I collapse by the boarding gate and watch the US election results on TV.
When I first flew as a young man, Southern States enforced legal apartheid no less vicious than that in South Africa.
Today the US has elected Senator Obama to the Presidency. Were I a citizen of the United States, Democrat or Republican, I would be immensely proud.
When I first flew as a young man, Southern States enforced legal apartheid no less vicious than that in South Africa.
Today the US has elected Senator Obama to the Presidency. Were I a citizen of the United States, Democrat or Republican, I would be immensely proud.
DC3s WERE ROMANTIC
I took my first commercial flight in 1952 - Dusseldorf to London, mid-winter - in response to a telegram: my mother was in hospital and unable to write. Unable to write had to be serious. The plane was a DC3. We got bounced around in a storm. I sat next to a Gay male German movie actor. The actor believed that we would crash and determined to have his last grope before death. Being groped was a new experience and not really my thing. However I was a polite young man, a lieutenant in a Lancer Regiment. Fending the actor's hands off without giving offense demanded concentration. I had no space for fear. My politeness was rewarded. I traveled up to London with the actor in a chauffeured studio car and telephoned the London Clinic from his mews house. I wasn't able to talk with my mother. She was out to dinner. She had cracked her wrists in a fall and had moved into the clinic as a convenience - nurses to help her bathe and dress.
I had a weekend pass. My mother wasn't expecting me. She was busy much of the weekend and we didn't see much of each other. The weather was fine on the flight back to Germany. I had a seat by the wing. Later I flew over much of Africa in DC3s. They were trusty planes: you could watch the propellers spin. And flying was a romantic adventure. Turn your coat collar up, tweak the brim of your hat and you were Humphrey Bogart watching the plane lift off in Casablanca...
I had a weekend pass. My mother wasn't expecting me. She was busy much of the weekend and we didn't see much of each other. The weather was fine on the flight back to Germany. I had a seat by the wing. Later I flew over much of Africa in DC3s. They were trusty planes: you could watch the propellers spin. And flying was a romantic adventure. Turn your coat collar up, tweak the brim of your hat and you were Humphrey Bogart watching the plane lift off in Casablanca...
US ELECTION
I flew Air France to New York on November 6 for my adopted daughter's wedding. My youngest son, Jedediah, drove me to London's Heathrow Airport. We left home at 2 am. Nighttime on the motorway can be scary. Jedediah passed his driving test only a couple of months back and I am a nervous passenger. Jedediah drove beautifully. We listened to the election results broadcast from the USA.
Jedediah said, “You want Obama to win?”
“Yes, I want Obama to win...”
Jedediah said, “You want Obama to win?”
“Yes, I want Obama to win...”
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