Putting The House To Bed

Big Fat Pig and the Groupie rushed to fit in a few days at the old country estate before the Welsh government threw the English out of Cymru, ostensibly on account of Covid although in the Pig's fevered imagination it is the product of unconscious racism - still, no one likes us, we don't care. The Pig's view on all of this is, not unnaturally, stoked up by the payment of double Council Tax for a property he now finds himself prohibited from even visiting. 

Wylfa Head

Enough whining. We had a lovely time. We even found a stretch of the Coastal Path we had not walked before - from Wylfa Head back to Cemaes. Cracking. Another rather muddy adventure took us down to Ynys y Fydlyn, this second walk being celebrated with drinks and a bowl of chips each at the Trecastell Hotel in Bull Bay. Sausages for tea, washed down with Romanian red. Tidy.

Ynys y Fydlyn

And so we have done with Plas Piggy (or should that be more modestly Ty Piggy - no, Pig doesn't really do modesty - admit it you've noticed) what the National Trust do - Plas Piggy is now asleep for the winter, eagerly awaiting the day when the powers that be let us return. Damn this virus and the ham-fisted legislative response to it.

 And I'll tell you what's nice - nice is when the house opposite chops down its horrid leylandii and unclutters your view of the Great Orme. 

And I'll tell you what else is nice - a free-flowing M6 that allows the journey to Mon to be done in well under three hours.

One final thing that's nice - Joe's Pizza swilled down with a ruby ale I got for Christmas and about which I'd forgotten. 

Worth looking up on Netflix - Jimmy McGovern's Broken - by turns tragic, affecting and finally redemptive. Actually rather more than worth looking up - it's a must see. 

Home, Briefly, And Then Away Again

No sooner returned from Porto than off on my travels, this time to Bilbao for the European Rugby Finals.

Potentially a rum decision to take the events to the Basque Country (it's not Spain, as several locals informed us) but, credit to the organisers, it went off splendidly. The city was brilliantly welcoming and the place was awash with partying rugby types - perhaps not everybody's cup of tea but compared to football fans we are a harmless bunch. A pharmacist (I was sponsored by Gaviscon for the six days) commented on this very fact when taking my trade on the second morning.

Lots to eat, rather more to drink and not quite as much culture as when in Porto. Notwithstanding that I ought to know better, this was one of the best tours I've been on. Thanks to JRS, BH, ATJS, AO and TW who put up with me for the duration and were princely company.

The very new and sparkly San Mames Stadium was host to the Challenge and Champions Cup fixtures - a cathedral of sport, simply stunning. Less stately but still impressive was the municipal sports park in the outlying town of Getxo, served by the clean and efficient Bilbao Metro and where JRS and I (the others were sleeping off a late one - very) watched ESTM of Moscow defeat RK Heidelberg in the Shield final on Saturday morning. A good game of rugby. The game of the weekend was however Friday evening's sixty-one point thriller between Cardiff and Gloucester - spoils to Cardiff by the odd point in those sixty-one.

The main final between Leinster and Racing 92 was, in contrast, tryless but enthralling, the sheer physicality perhaps masking some deficiencies in execution. Leinster prevailed by a late penalty.

Most memorable moment of the trip. Meeting Scott Quinnell in the lounge at Heathrow? Lovely chap, but no.. For me it was that game of head-butt the ice cube demonstrated by the lunatic and musical group of Clermont fans we encountered on Saturday night. Don't try it when your sober.

Shamefully I have to fess up that although we walked around it, we never made it to the inside of the Guggenheim. Transpires it's not open on a Monday.

Back home to some stark realities - my PhD has stalled so needs resuscitating and, more worryingly, Trump is still in power. 

Isn't It Nice When Things Work Properly

Whilst British Airways spent the weekend looking like the most disorganised company in the world - BA IT meltdown - and the Conservative Party continued in its self-inflicted death spiral, we had a nice couple of days at the old country estate. Things worked properly.

The drive to Mon took less than three hours without a single traffic jam. The journey home also came in at less than three hours including a stop to buy safety snacks (this is family slang for emergency rations) which included very satisfactory chicken balls. Not sure how much actual chicken was in them but they tasted great.

Even the bank holiday weather worked with us. We walked round to Red Wharf Bay, enjoyed a couple of outdoor drinks at The Ship Inn and the rain left us alone. Glorious. Main object of the visit was to firm up plans for the kitchen extension and allied works of improvement. Meetings with both kitchen designer and builder were fruitful so it's full steam ahead.

Nice. And we drank champagne while watching a silly but enjoyable film, Jack Reacher. He may be as mad as a box of frogs but you have to concede that Tom Cruise has presence. 6/10.  

That London; Hell Is Other People; Lives Of The Rich And Famous

An interesting and, on balance, most enjoyable Sunday. On the train to That London with Joey Barton sitting in our carriage, presumably en route to watch his boyhood team, Everton, who were at Arsenal. He behaved himself. So did I. Tempting to know what the odds on that double would have been. Should have asked him.

Rather bloody lovely

Once in That London we went for a longish walk on Hampstead Heath in the company of Daughters One and Two (I say that as if there might be more - there aren't). Now, I'm ashamed to admit it but notwithstanding my time at university in the Big Smoke, I'd never made it to Hampstead before. Rather bloody lovely - the sort of place where people can afford to be liberal. I pinched that line from an old friend from college days.

We rewarded our exertions with a late lunch at The Holly Bush: nice pub, good food, notably good service. recommended.

Hell is other people, most particularly on crowded trains going back to Liverpool full of football fans. At least they don't smash the trains up like they used to. Joey Barton was in our carriage again. What were the odds? Oh sorry already done that gag. Is Barton stalking me? Am I stalking him? He was not the only footballer on the train - two coaches of first-class had been commandeered for the Everton team and sundry hangers-on. They denied entry to autograph seekers but Barton duly signed for two youngsters. good on him.

A prejudice confirmed by yesterday's lunch: fish and chips should always be haddock rather than cod.

The Advent Of The 1/3 Pounder

I forgot to write about it whilst in America but I was struck by the cultural symbolism of the radio advertisements for Macdonald's new third pounder. It may be apocryphal but internet legend has it that attempts to launch a previous such burger in the 80's failed due to American mathematical ignorance - focus groups established that a majority of punters thought a quarter pound was more than a third.

Two for my mate BFP please

The jet lag seems finally to have been defeated so today has been one of office hours even though I don't have an office to go to. I have filled the unforgiving minutes by: reading (how did I ever go off this?); getting my hair cut (usual number two buzz-cut); thrashing inexpertly at some golf balls (an invitation to play at Woburn on Monday has been procured from Mikey B and I haven't played a stroke since signal failure in Ireland); jump-starting the precious Jag (flat battery due to underuse), driving it around for a bit (nice) and peeling spuds for this evening's chips. Now waiting for the Groupie to return from work at which point the allegedly healthy fryer goes on. Actually now that the West Coast tour is over I suppose she ceases to be the Groupie, and since she is my keeper maybe I should shed my other aliases and go under 'Kept Man'. Does that make her the 'Sugar Mummy'?

Further evidence that I must be going soft in my dotage - I found myself mildly well-disposed to Noel Gallagher in his Desert Island Discs appearance this morning.

I had taken a hatful of dvd's with me to America but in the event only watched some Phoenix Nights and a solitary film - a Bette Davis melodrama The Letter. Rather good. Based on a Somerset Maugham story it is a clever little morality tale about the veneer of western decency contrasted to outwardly shabby oriental morality. Davis again confirms her willingness to play unattractive characters and, more than that, to excel at it. 7/10.

The Sugar Mummy has returned and the chips are nearly done. I'm going to have a dipping sauce of strawberry balsamic vinegar as bought at Pike Place Market in Seattle.

PS. Did I say strawberry balsamic? Who ever heard of such a thing. I meant raspberry balsamic.

Circadian Dysrhythmia

Or jet lag to you and me. It has hit me harder than after previous trips. Another sign of age? Oh well, bugger it, I feel on more solid ground today if not totally wound tight for intellectual action.

Having been lame with my calf injury for the past four weeks and having eaten a grandiose super-sufficiency on holiday I went out for  a run yesterday with not inconsiderable trepidation. I did a steady three miles and felt no ill effects. I was stiff of muscle when I woke today but decided I was well enough to venture forth once more. Wrong. The calf twinged (no more) in the third mile and, defying past macho practice, I stopped immediately and sloped back home to ice the muscle - few things are more embarrassing than being the middle-aged man walking in lycra. I am controlling my habitual pissed-off pessimism - for now - but if the problem persists I reserve the right to moon around swathed in self-pity.

I got back to this country just in time to see our cricketers revert to type and get well and truly marmalised by the Australians. Resistance was there none. For the good of English cricket I may have to decamp once more. Would a few days in Anglesey be enough do you think? I'll do anything for the good of the country.

Final reflections on the West Coast interlude. Bloody good. Favourite bit? The Oregon Coast. Best beer - Flat Tail Brewing's Tailgater Kolsch (admit it you didn't expect me to nominate a lager - neither did I but it fitted its moment perfectly). Best city - Vancouver. Best food - Paley's in Portland, by a country mile. Best Shakespeare play - still Antony and Cleopatra. 

I bought some necessary supplies in Sainbury's on Monday and the young man on the till hoped I would 'have a nice day'. I was tempted to favour Peter Ustinov's recommended response, 'thank you but I have other plans', but bit my tongue and reflected that good service works both ways - both server and served need to conspire in the transaction. In America I was a willing conspirator. I shall endeavour to be so on home soil.

Have a good day now.

Back In Blighty

I am not a good traveller. I fret that something is going to go wrong. So when we approached Vancouver in the small hours of Saturday morning I convinced myself there would be no taxis to get us to the Airport Fairmont. Wrong. Next I fretted that we wouldn't get the desired seats on the plane. Well I was partly right on that score but the Groupie did some skilful negotiation and we were placed alongside each other. And then in a piece of great good fortune the seat on my other side was not taken and I luxuriated in a double space for the width of the Atlantic.

Thus had we made it to London in good shape. All that was left was the train back to Brum. On which I now sit, part of a seething mass of sweaty humanity, trying to ignore the pissed-up Scotsman behind me who has with him two bottles of Coke and a full bottle of scotch which he plainly intends to empty before the ultimate destination of Glasgow. It's good to be back.

Goodbye To All That

Sitting in reception at the Inn at Northrup Station having checked out of our last US hotel room. All that is left now is train to Vancouver, one night there and the plane home tomorrow.

It has been nothing short of fabulous and we treated ourselves to a highfalutin finish last night at the highly recommended Paley's Place. This was food and wine out of the top drawer. Mildly pretentious? Possibly but sometimes that can be nice. I wore long trousers for the first and only time on this holiday. Details at Posh Nosh Portland .

Portland grew on me. I strongly suspect it is a great place to live because food, wine, beer, coffee are abundant in independent splendour. Possibly not a great choice for a lengthy holiday stay unless of course you want to do the said food, wine, beer, coffee to death. Incidentally, Portland is the site of the first ever Fred Meyer store - our new retail fave.

I should have known it would happen - I logged on with a strong foreboding and found that England have capitulated in the cricket. Still tomorrow is another day.

No More Driving On The Right

Transport of delight

The OG tour bus has rolled back into the city, latest stop Portland Oregon. The tour bus (Ford Focus) has been returned safely and unmolested to Avis after fourteen hundred miles of faithful service - BFP doesn't do downtown driving, it is safe for neither him nor the locals.

First impressions of Portland are favourable - we even had a taxi driver who was listening to the BBC, what a dude! BFP/OG and the tour groupie are shacked up in the uber trendy Inn at Northrup Station, so cool it is bordering on glacial. The room has two televisions (but no pool to throw them into) and a kitchen. Dig the vibe at Northrup Station .

But enough of Portand for that will surely follow. No I must boast (that is the only fair word) about the day OG and groupie had yesterday. We breakfasted of donuts, tea for her and coffee for him. We then set out with every intention of buying lunchtime provender from the artisan bakery in Yachats. It was closed and this was our first stroke of luck because it drove us into the arms of the retail giant that is Fred Meyer, Florence, OR branch. Shopping is something America does better than us - simply put there is nowhere in England where one can buy four 250 ml picnic cans of Californian pinot grigio (for $4.99 mark you), two quality sandwiches, A tub of varied olives and peppers, a tub of fresh fruit, and a University of Oregon teeshirt all in one place. With air conditioning that actually works and toilets (sorry restrooms) that are fit for use.

The drive to Florence was fortuitous because the views going South-bound on Route101 are even more stunning than those we had seen coming up the other way. The Oregon coast is indescribably awesome so I won't bother, I'll instead cull a couple of pictures from the old inter web thing and hope they give you a flavour. Put it this way, I'm relatively well travelled but, in the words of the song, I ain't never seen nothing like this. The first is of the Oregon Dune Belt; the second of the beach at the Muriel L. Ponsler Memorial Picnic Area  off 101. We walked for a mile in each direction and saw, in mid holiday season, only twenty living souls - and four of those were dogs. Muriel must have been some woman to merit a memorial like that.

Finally a word for a fine end to a fine day - dinner at Ona in Yachats was very much up to scratch: chicken which Mrs OG/Groupie described as fabulous; surf and turf for OG/BFP in which the turf was good and the surf divine. We will be back to Yachats and, given the journey from Brum, that's quite a promise and quite a recommendation of a heavenly spot on the map.

Yachats, Oregon

Pronounced 'Yah-hots' apparently, this coastal town (or probably more accurately a village) is simply gorgeous. There is sand and surf and the interior rises steeply away from the sea into forest. On the hills are stunning houses. We are staying at the idiosyncratic (you have to climb around the toilet to get into the shower) but definitely loveable Deane's Oceanfront Lodge just outside the town - it has its own path down to the beach and they have a free DVD library for the use of patrons and complimentary coffee and donuts (more local spelling) each morning. Yesterday the weather was milder than has been the norm but that made it nice for an exploration of the local coastline and was certainly not enough to keep me from my obligatory dip in the ocean - cold but great waves for body surfing. I missed having the girls with me so that we could have done some 'nutter running' which was our patented method of running into the oncoming tide heedless of the temperature before diving into the oncoming swell. Doing it alone would have felt wrong.

We have filled our last two evenings by watching Meryl Streep films from the library at reception, US television being dauntingly multifarious and unnavigable. The House of the Spirits tried to do too much, based on what I must assume is a sprawling novel by Isabel Allende. It also had the implausibility of Jeremy Irons as a Latin grandee. However the narrative string was arresting and it was worth staying to the end. Just. 5/10.

Last night's offering was rather better and I'm surprised that we had never come across it before. Marvin's Room is littered with luminaries - Streep, Diane Keaton, Leonardo DiCaprio and a bit part for Robert De Niro. It takes the dysfunctional family trope to laudable heights and has comedy and tragedy running together in believable balance. You are reminded just what a considerable screen presence DiCaprio possesses as his young self goes punch for punch with his elder cinematic co-stars. 7/10.

More walking today and I may even buy another teeshirt. Tonight we are dining out. The standards set by our experiences thus far are high but Ona looks to be Yachats' plushest destination and therefore promising. I will have to take great care in choosing which teeshirt to wear.

Welcome To The Hotel California, Briefly

We left Ashland behind us yesterday with good memories and then took a circuitous route to our latest stop so that we could say we have been to California. The mountains of Southern Oregon/ Northern California are spectacular, steep slopes dominated by what we botanists call bloody big trees. And after the mountains comes the coast - about which one can only say, bloody hell, or perhaps in the vernacular, awesome dude. Mile upon mile of pure Pacific Ocean, sometimes surmounted by cliffs and then by the Oregon dune belt. Also awesome was the pizza we had for lunch in the town of Brookings.

Globe on steroids?

Now we are in Yachats, Oregon, staying within a stone's throw (well perhaps a few throws of a stone) of the ocean and miles of flawless sand. But more of that later. I need first to divest myself of my thoughts on the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. We saw a fine production of Antony and Cleopatra in Ashland's Elizabethan Theater (there's that spelling thing again) and it made an interesting contrast with my beloved Globe back in London. The playing spaces are similarly configured though Ashland is grander. Both are open to the elements - elements which in Ashland's case had flash-flooded the town just three days before our arrival. Where the Globe makes few concessions to the creature comforts of the spectator (the discomfort is part of the fun) Ashland is far more concerned about its customers - there is legroom undreamt of in even the most modern British theatre (there's that spelling thing again) and the roof covers all but the stalls. Tellingly, no one stands up in Oregon. Thus Ashland is Elizabethan(ish) in its acting environment but doesn't leave you squirming as the drama unfolds. There is also a notable difference in how the stage is utilised. The Globe knowingly eschews modern usage - no electronic sound system for example. Ashland does use amplified effects to augment the play and even had electronic surtitles to tell us where each scene was set. None of this was objectionable because, as he generally does, the Bard brings you back to the play. The programme notes (Ashland's substantial programme is free to each playgoer - a nice touch) correctly described Antony and Cleopatra as Shakespeare's most cinematic play and this production raced along nicely. There were nice directorial touches where scenes were made to overlap as the separated principals saw each other in their thoughts. A very good night and here's a tip should you ever be in Ashland and want a drink and bite to eat before the play, either make a reservation in advance (there are three theatres in the Festival and therefore three audiences worth of people descending on a smallish town) or do as we did and go to the Redzone Sports Bar. There were sixteen screens showing baseball but most importantly it had clearly been discounted by theatre-goers as a suitable venue for pre-show drinks. It's actually fine and you'll get a seat and the obligatory swift service. I had deep-fried mozzarella cheese sticks and a pint of IPA. Which was nice.  

The Wrong Side Of The Road

The big cities have been left behind and OG therefore trusts himself to get behind the wheel. Our transport of delight is a Ford Focus - an uninvolving vehicle if truth be told but automatic transmission is a decided benefit when you are trying your damnedest to stay on the right side of the road.

Base for the last few days has been Corvallis, Oregon, home of Oregon State University (Go Beavers!) and a delight. This town of fifty-six thousand souls has no fewer than seven artisan brew-pubs (there might be more in which case I apologise). We have drunk and eaten in three of them and would recommend all, but, drumroll, my favourite (marginally) is Flat Tail (beavers have flat tails - geddit?) Truckloads of beer to choose from plus monster portions of honest bar food. It goes without saying that service throughout the town has been uniformly excellent. Tomorrow will take us down Highway 5 to Ashland at the southernmost extreme of Oregon and the delights (hopefully) of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.

To help me master this wrong side of the road stuff we took a motor tour of the Willamette National Forest yesterday. Oregon is implausibly stunning - big landscapes, big skies and big blue lakes. We hit the road again today and took in the Oregon Garden, eighty acres of flamboyant planting - the Oregon Garden .

Thus far I have bought three teeshirts. More will follow.

Turning Left And Arriving

Well actually a minor disappointment - the layout of the plane was such that we turned right. But thereafter all was well, service spot on and usual comforts. The food (lobster to start, responsibly sourced haddock to follow and a nice cheese board to finish) was presentable and a wide choice of wines, most of which I tried. Didn't watch much on the screen but rather managed to snooze whilst listening to Radio 4 programming. Tres satisfactoire as some Canadians are wont to say.

Third floor corner suite ours for now

We were arriving in Vancouver on Canada Day which meant an interesting taxi ride through the downtown thronged streets - we had a diminutive driver in a responsibly sourced Prius (Sunshine Cab S31) who must have broken some sort of record for lane changing as he negotiated us to the Fairmont. Vancouver is an exceptionally civilised city as betokened by the fixed fare from airport to centre - absolute bargain at $31.

Multi grain bagel for breakfast. Weather fine. All well in the world.

Turning Left

It's holiday time and we're doing it upmarket. Virgin Train business class to Euston, followed by taxi to Paddington and then the very satisfactory Heathrow Express (Business First natch) to the airport. Now reporting to you from the BA South Lounge in Terminal 5. A bit busy if truth be told but the wine and food are all free and gratis so I'm getting stuck in before we head for Vancouver. An oddity is that the wine list seems to eschew the New World. I'm grinning and bearing it in my new spirit of entente cordiale.

Meanwhile the world outside bakes in 35 degree heat and I've spent barely any time away from air conditioning. Life's been good to me so far. More to follow.

All Of life Is There

Man and beloved Cannondale in
perfect harmony

Well ok not all of life, not even all of my life, but quite a nice slice of it. It's been a busy few days.

On Friday and putting aside the various excuses (all plausible but none compelling) I got out on the bike again. I am very saddle sore today but the virtuousness has not quite dissipated. It is going to be a diet of cycling and swimming from now on - the running just causes me too many bloody injuries. I'll leave the running for my refereeing and the few triathlons I still aim to do. I love the event but the road running just doesn't love me. The latest addition to the catalogue has been a thigh pull which lamed me a couple of weeks ago. Old age, a super-structure too large for the chassis (ie fat) and bad luck are all against me. As the Pet Shop Boys so ably put it, what have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?

As it happens, yes I am

It was off to that London again on Friday evening to stay with Daughter Number One, who, by the way, is admirably well-adjusted, self-sufficient and altogether an example to her old man still scrabbling around in search of his destiny. The purpose of my southern travel was my Olympic volunteer training alongsige 9,999 other 'Games Makers' at Wembley Arena. I am prohibited from reporting upon that training in detail (which I know sounds prissy but I take such undertakings seriously)  but suffice it to say that my anticipation of the Games is heightened. I sat between a giant man from Matlock (of roughly my age at a guess) who charmingly admitted that he had now conceded he would never compete at a games and that this was his only chance of involvement, and a nice young lass from Bristol University who sported, I noticed, one of those 'WWJD' (What Would Jesus Do?) bracelets, though not at all ostentatiously. I have decided that, on balance, I find such things admirable. Which you will probably agree is pretty big of me.

Soothes the savage beast

The low point of the weekend was my laughable attempt to find the only West End cinema showing Coriolanus yesterday afternoon. I tramped all over Bond Street, Picadilly and Regent Street in the pissing down rain getting ever angrier with an unaccommodating world - this I believe the psychiatrists call displacement activity, an action contrived to help keep me from the realisation that I'm a wanker who really should write things down. By the time I reached the divine ICCo (it stands for Italian Coffee Company) at 46 Goodge Street (write that down because you should go there) the displacement had ceased to be operative and I was firmly convinced of my wankerdom but £4.50 on a pepperoni (I know - it really is that cheap) later I had calmed down a little and resolved to cut my losses and head out of the Smoke for home.

Trains are good for self esteem because almost invariably one encounters people so much more dreadful than oneself. It is terribly reassuring. Yesterday it was a youngish affluentish couple, married, though not to each other and who plainly felt it droll that they were going to Birmingham to visit Imogen who, poor soul, has ended up being forced to live there. WWJD, I found myself wondering. To which I answered that he would probably travel economy and thereby expose himself to yet worse privations.

I was pondering a bottle of cab sauv as I settled my weary self before the television when I had a moment of inspiration. Might Coriolanus be showing at the Midland Arts Centre? Well what do you know. So I dashed back out and across the city and even had time for a bolted glass of sauvignon blanc before hunkering down in an aisle seat for a satisfying cinematic two hours.

   

Ralph Fiennes gets much right. His  Caius Martius Coriolanus is bloodily magnificent, unforgiving and unforgiven. Vanessa Redgrave's Volumnia is perhaps even better. James Nesbitt does his best Martin McGuiness as Sicinius the tribune. Liberties are taken but hey ho, they always have been. Allowing Menenius an honourable suicide gives the character greater moral heft than the text warrants but it works in its modern context. I can even accept the intertextuality of Coriolanus' elevation/descent (this can depend on your political sympathies) into Colonel Kurtz territiory. See it - an intelligent and provocative addition to the canon. What we now need is a similarly bloody Julius Caesar to stand alongside this and Julie Taymor's raucous Titus in a modern Roman trilogy. Perhaps Tarnatino could be persuaded to have a stab - how marvellous if the bard could provoke him into a finally mature film.

Seeing Redgrave in such magisterial form reminded me that the last time I had seen her was in an irritating interview about Anonymous. No doubt dutifully toeing the party line she gave credence to that film's advocacy of the Earl of Oxford as author of Shakespeare's works. I will let the real David Roberts (professor of the species, head of the School of English at BCU) explain why this is unworthy bollocks,

If you see Anonymous and feel remotely persuaded by it, find a copy of James Shapiro’s Contested Will or Samuel Schoenbaum’s Shakespeare’s Lives. There, you’ll find a commodity that doesn’t concern Emmerich or his backers: the truth.

Quite. That bit of specious crap from Redgrave puts me in mind of something similarly assinine currently making news. Sean Penn. Creditable actor and if we do have to query the sanity of a man who married Madonna we can at least credit him with having divorced her. But now he is on the movie star equivalent of a state visit to South America and Sean thinks that we Brits should give Las Malvinas to poor little Argentina. Has this man no sense of irony, indeed has he never seen his own role in the brilliant Team America? Sean son, a word to the wise - keep your trap shut. And I should stay away from Catterick for a while as well. A nice piece in The Telegraph (not words you hear from me that often) spears this knob rather well,

America’s claim over Malibu is tenuous and rooted in patriarchy. Sean Penn’s house is a mocking reminder of that brute chauvinism, with its high white walls and spacious interiors. Its swimming pool is an insult to the honour of the Mexican people.

The Unquiet American

And while you're at it Sean, how about giving, I dunno, say, Massachusetts back to native Americans. Be a nice gesture.

Travelogue VI: Bad Guys In The Supermarket, Good Guys With Guns



CEO of Walmart

Walmart. Bastards. Mas X Menos is the Costa Rican outpost of the evil empire and you should not on any account shop there. Judging by my own highly scientific review of the evidence, the only unpleasant people in Cost Rica all work for this institution. Let us start with the low-lifes who stole my daughter's bag from the bag deposit at the store. Let us be clear, this was not some unfortunate mix-up or administrative error, this was a sweet, little inside job based on the good old-fashioned precept of fleece the foreigner. Steal the bag full of electronic goodies, then play dumb when the gringos complain so that they depart defeated and seeking solace in their travel insurance. Not this time you scumbags. You f****d with the wrong marine.

At a desk laughably labeled 'Customer Service' my requests to call the police were ignored and we were not even told how to go about making a claim for recompense. Nobody would give us their name. But Kevin Gallas and Isobel Romero were wearing name tags so the pair of them get a name check here on The Overgraduate. Thanks for nothing guys, you gutless wonders. Did you get a cut?

The Death Star

From there the story gets better. A lovely tour guide called Ricardo was doing his shopping and came to offer his assistance. A manager from our hotel (the excellent Apartotel Cristina) was equally supportive and we were put in touch with the estimable Jason (named, he told me after Jason Priestley, his mother's girlish crush) taxi driver cum interpreter who guided us through the process of reporting the crime and missed the kick-off of Costa Rica v Bolivia in the Copa America as a result. Last but by no means least we met Carlos the detective who took up the case and despatched two rozzers down to the store to investigate. This shouldn't be cool at all but it is - Carlos had a gun. If nothing else I hope Kevin and Isobel were hugley inconvenienced by the visit from the fuzz. They will hear more of the angry gringo that is the Overgraduate. I wonder if Costa Rica does no win- no fee speculative litigation because I fancy some egregious shit-stirring might suit my purpose here.

Happy ending: Costa Rica 2; Bolivia 0. Pura Vida as we say here at the poolside.

Travelogue V: Bloody Hippies

Pants

Travel Writing

Travel writing has a long tradition and its most commercial manifestation is the now ubiquitous guidebook. Rough Guide, Lonely Planet, we have used both of these on our little family adventures and found them useful. Bradt Guides are new to us and we bought the Panama guide because of good reviews on Amazon. These reviews are wrong. Sarah Woods’ views on Panama are a masterpiece of partial and inverted snobbery. Partiality is quite acceptable (you have read this blog haven’t you?) but when it is lame-brained and badly written it does not deserve a commercial outing. Did any one proof-read this book? There is an opportunistic and wholly unilluminating foreword by Irving Saladino, Panama’s first ever Olympic champion, described as a high jumper, which he is not. Ignorance on the topic might just be excusable but when the text is accompanied by a photograph of Saladino manifestly long jumping it betrays a lack of attention. Even worse is the brief (and again worthless) biography of the athlete on page 291. This is a  piece of journo-trash obviously badly translated from Spanish which nobody has bothered to check over. If you run a writing class and want an example of lazy, cut and paste journalism read Appendix 2 to this guide.

But what really got my goat was the unremediated condemnation of the Red Frog Beach Resort at which we stayed in Panama. In truth the resort is sloppily administered and open to criticism but Woods’ damnation of it is a piece of bien-pensant western romanticism which stems from an attitude of mind that denies countries like Panama the right to grow up and make their own mistakes, if mistakes they be. Yes there has been a lot of construction and it involves brick rather than the more prevalent wood and corrugated iron (a product which Woods might like to observe is hardly a natural resource) but if you actually take time to observe the architecture of the villas (admittedly difficult if one is looking down one’s nose as Woods does) you might note that they mimic the shape of the traditional waterfront properties and are tastefully screened from view. This is Woods’ vitriolic conclusion on a place one doubts she visited with her eyes open,

How this sorry excuse for legalized devastation passed through Panama’s planning checks one can only hazard a guess. The completion of this multi-million dollar real estate eyesore has been fraught by financial hiccups and delays but not before it is altering one of Panama’s most beautiful sandy stretches for ever – a crying shame.

So that you, dear reader, can have the full story I counted the man-made intrusions on the resort beach. There are twelve palm fringed umbrellas, a rudimentary bamboo volleyball net and a sign warning bathers of the rip tides. No doubt it was a purer place when unwary visitors were drowning in those tides.

As I hinted, the administration of the resort is pretty ham-fisted (the polar opposite of intrusive, it is completely invisible, inaudible, inaccessible) but the place itself is beautiful and the properties top grade and tasteful. We are not, Ms Woods, all of us backpackers kidding ourselves that what we experience is authentic, in fact, dare I whisper it, the locals might just be glad of the presence of some of us who are not parsimonious with the tips and have a bit of cash to spend. I liked Red Frog Beach Resort and I’m not ashamed to say so.  

Travelogue IV: Sonnet

Sonnet Number One : Red Frog Beach, Panama, July 6 2011

Civilization has not in itself the power of survival. It came into being through Christianity and without it has no significance or power to command allegiance.

Evelyn Waugh, 1930

‘Especially today.’ Unlikely place

may have provoked swift sober thinking

but wrong. Particularity of face

perplexed then smilingly pinking

will colour memory misguidedly

the Americans swam in the rip tides

new imperialists and so did we

though ours was more defeated. Shingle glides

clatters rests retreats. Ramshackle defeat

nature’s modest triumph signed in sand

we mark sweet briefly hand in hand

only victory complete.

And still a sweet mental music will play

a deception. ‘Especially today.’

Travelogue III: Word Games

I had the fish. $5.95

'Asinine' adj. extremely stupid or foolish.
'Asshole' n. an asinine individual, often American.
This similarity of words occurred to me yesterday as I unavoidably listened to the fat bloke who was simultaneously dining and working on his laptop in a waterside restaurant. Chill man, or if you can't do so please be uncool less loudly. If not you will risk becoming as loathsome as the reptiles we British export to the world's watering holes every summer. There are none of them here in Panama so far as one can tell with the result that we are not regarded as the scum of the earth. Which is nice.

Travelogue II: Journeys And Arrivals

Journeys Are Often Better Than Arrivals

(written 4 July)

If you are travelling with American Airlines this is palpably untrue. If they should ever invite you to a brewery you may rest assured that there will not be a piss-up occurring. They’ll probably lay on a piddlingly small number of staff who haven’t got an earthly about what’s going on and then make you sleep on a chair for a while for no apparent reason. At no point will anyone volunteer the word ‘sorry’ for the inconvenience you are quite obviously suffering.

Gap year Overgraduate style

Here are the pertinent facts for the prospective traveller: Fact 1: Miami Airport – shithole with gratuitously rude security staff. I’m fed up of having to defend the USA to people. I have a love of the place and its people but really lads your current conduct of airport security is impolite, unnecessary and probably ineffective. Get over yourselves and revert to being charming please. Fact 2: American Airlines – shower of shit. And that goes for our own flag carrier too – British Airways were only too willing to get us to Miami late, dump us there and leave us to our own devices without a word of comfort or advice. Fact 3: Panama City restores one’s faith in human nature even if you arrive a day late, unshaven, unwashed and unrested. People are nice, which makes up for no amount of infrastructure or systems failure. Fact 4; we have our own pool here at Red Frog Beach Resort. Actually that is rather more of a boast than a pertinent fact. I didn’t want you to worry about me.