Tag Archives: SWK

May 13 2015
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Airport, Hangover, Holiday, Macedonia, Wedding

How I became Marilyn: Matrimony, Macedonian-style, with black drinks, and your phone in the river as you want to puke on a Ukrainian

And so we now go whirling back in time to May 2008. And quite a week, it was. A relocation with Sarah the First (some years were still to pass before SWK swung so delightfully into view – let’s call her STF, as I love a good acronym) across country from cosy West Norfolk to Scary Sheffield was waiting in the wings. Before we departed on the trip I shall describe further down, I was hauled one sunny morning to a place called Go Ape! Based in Thetford, this place. In a forest – you can see where I am going with this, right? Essentially a whole lot of ropes, nets, ladders and zip wires, onto which, following a period of instruction and the usual embarrassing fitting of equipment, one would attach oneself in a variety of ways and then sort of move through the greenery, like a rather unconvincing, breathless and careworn ‘ape’.

Actually, it was quite good fun, even for someone given to a little light curmudgeoning, now and again. I’d dropped a few hundredweight in the first half of the year, and felt rather fitter and stronger and nippier than normal. Therefore I sort of did ‘alright’, even though, as I say, it was a hot day and I’m not and will never exactly be Tarzan. Still, for all that, I have fond memories of the first zip wire, where I managed to maintain proper balance and could see directly ahead all the way down. The longer they get, the more chance there is that your balance will be disturbed and you will start to rotate as the whole contraption heads downhill – frankly if you so much as fart or raise a quizzical eyebrow, it’s a case of round and round you go. All this makes for a rather dizzying point of re-introduction to the terra firma, of course. I only really blotted my copybook as a calm, determined and entirely adult ‘ape’ at the point when, at the conclusion of the whole shebang, I thudded to earth for the last time really very uncomfortably, and scrabbled to my feet, rubbing myself, exclaiming “aaaargh, my BACK, my FUCKING BACK!” Inevitably, as is the way with these things, a young family full of goggle-eyed and adorable toddlers was having a nicely behaved lunch, on a blanket in the sunshine, about six feet downstage. So, my soaring into this scene and oathing my way out of it must have been a real treat for them. I mumbled something apologetic and lumbered away, studded with bark chippings, and trailing clips, crampons, cords, crash helmets and the like from my bruised person.

Home we sped, to pack, and set sail for the delights of the Balkans.

If I recall correctly, and more than a few years have passed, we managed to get into the country with little or no incident. Via, I think, Vienna, when it was a place as yet unknown to me. Vienna would have its rather surly and humourless revenge on us on the way back, to the tune of a bottle of DF vodka purchased by STF for 70p or something in Skopje airport. It was convincingly-enough bubble-wrapped and sealed and so forth, but was plucked from our property by a rather hatchet-faced mädchen, who declared it to be illegal in some way or another, as she cast it into an enormous Bin Of De Trop Booze. I was feeling rather off-colour, and remarked “Welcome to Vienna” rather too loudly, and got shot rather a look.

Anyway, yes, so, Macedonia. Stone the crows it was hot. Various bags put in an appearance, and we sweltered with them into a cab driven by heavily moustachioed fellow intent on giving us the history of the country since Tito, and a short lecture on what he termed the Balkan Mentality. We whizzed this way and that, everywhere and anywhere, and finally were put down at an indistinct crossroads, as our boy, whilst dynamite on domestic history and sociology, wasn’t exactly white hot on the final location of our hotel. There followed a slightly ill-tempered period of disappearing off in several different directions (Cyrillic not being a speciality of mine, and only partially registering with STF). Rather more by luck than judgement, we finally fell upon our hotel, immediately recognised both a swimming pool and a bar that sold cold, cheap beer, and generally unwound for a bit.

I should that explain that we were in town for a wedding. An old school friend of many years – let’s call him Benj, for his name is Benj – residing at that time in Budapest, was marrying his partner, a native of Macedonia. So, a couple of days playing by ourselves, a split stag-hen do that came to form a joined event later on, and, ultimately, the wedding, with our flight due to take off at slightly alarming o’clock the following morning. Nice mixture, interesting and perhaps unlikely location for a (at that stage) less-travelled pair, good weather. All pointed upwards.

One or two chums dropped in. Family members unseen for some time. A little beer was taken and, at some stage or another, STF and I noodled off to a couple of unusual bars (one festooned with hookahs and pillows, making seating an unusual business), and a spot of inexpensive dinner. Night came down, another bar was showing one of the Eurovision semi-final heats, our shorts were on and we generally kicked back and watched the night gradually cool from the heat of the day. Skopje was a real proper mixture. Old and new, battered and pristine, ancient and modern. Lovely waterfront, and a glorious Fortress (Kale) staring down on the city, up to which we scampered on the second morning, to learn about earthquakes and to mock the dreadful appearance of the football stadium, which appeared to be sort of melting on one side, and thus threatening to tilt into the river.

Clambering back to the hotel, as was often our wont on holiday, we got the sniff of an entirely unnecessary nightcap. And, but ten doors down from our quarters, there stood a small cube of a building. Scarcely identifiable as a bar, but just about such. A scattering of plastic garden furniture and the low thrum of revelry and music inside. Bravery and boozery got the better of us and we stepped down from the highway a few steps and into the throng.

The place was doing a high old trade, the jukebox skipping merrily, and, on something like a Wednesday night, the floor was peppered with cheery locals dancing, quaffing and ignoring the encroaching morning. So, we did too. And had our first real introduction to how good Macedonian red wine is, and how little it can cost. At some point we reeled off and away and back to HQ, topped-up nicely with something of roughly the quality of a Lebanese wine (my favourite), at about 15% the cost. Remarkable!

Off to a flier, and a couple of terrific days followed, learning more and more about our host city. Sunshine, and that enjoyable mixture of urban, semi-rural, commerce, hub-bub and catch-up all came together quite, quite beautifully. We had the most splendid time and I remember it hugely fondly, some years on. I remember lunchtime on the day of the stag and hen do, where we thought to take on board some preparatory solids over a spot of late lunch, and did a bit of digging around to find a ‘local’s hang out’, which was recommended in our guide book. Glad we did. It was not a lot more than an elongated wooden and brick shack, about a quarter inch from the thundering highway, with an open fire oven at one end. Characterful, shall we say? I have been trying to find it again on the internet to give you the name, but no dice, alas. If it ever emerges from the guidebook, I’ll pop it up on an edit here. Anyway, after a hard morning working our way ‘round ‘Ramstore’ (a mall, which sold everything, near enough) in pursuit of some jewellery, we fell upon our lunch gladly. A cold glass of beer each, with an enormous long, grilled chilli pepper, which took our heads off, and a delightful Shopska salad (I left the country full to the brim with that – still can’t make it as well at home, for all its simplicity). Followed that up with a kebab each and a litre of water and a litre of house red (again, stellar, I can almost summon the taste back now). We emerged, blinking into the sun, about £9 lighter. Wonderful.

So, on we gleefully went, and eventually, after the cavortings of the preparatory parties, it was time to get (a bit) serious, with the whole wedding shebang.

The day dawned bright, sunny and the temperature clambered on up into the middle nineties. English people gathered, sweatily, at the poolside, fingers circling the inside of dress collars, swilling down bottled water as preparation against the heat and onslaught of suspicious drinks to come. Benj appeared, and led us en masse, as his ‘supporters’ to the flat where his intended’s parents resided. First item of Macedonian tradition underway. We bundled into lifts, party by party, up to the 23579th floor, and pushed in. There began a process of bargaining for the bride’s release. Ultimately this was a release secured by the handing over a sum of money to the bride’s sister, but firstly we enjoyed Benj getting wrong (and quite badly wrong) a series of questions about the future Mrs Benj, the correct answers to which would have secured her release all the sooner and more cheaply. No matter, soon all were together, the windows flung wide, and the living room transformed into a dancefloor for that always incomprehensible tradition of forming massive circles, holding hands, walking and periodically kicking in the same direction and shouting “HEY!” whilst on a record somewhere someone gives it six-nowt on a balalaika, or similar. Roaring good fun. Bottles of suspicious-looking over-chilled Rakija (a glorious blend of what you know best of grappa, brandy and a good single malt) appeared, and were carefully sipped at. The hour was barely noon. Hmm..

Onto phase two. Get Me To The Church on Time. Our massive group of Europeans of all types (what a cool day this was – bollocks to all that suspicious-of-everyone right wing crap – people from everywhere are, frankly, ace) crammed onto coaches, and off we rolled to a Macedonian Orthodox Church, somewhere on the fringes of the city. Cracking building. Retreated to a safe distance to admire and photograph it, so as to make bolting down more water and having a cheeky gasper seem reasonable. Eventually, as the Sun really began to give it what for, we were summoned in to stand in rather arbitrary crowds and bear witness to the service.

I can’t do it justice, really. Not in meagre words, I wish you could pop into the cinema of my memory. There appeared to be at least 17 priests, and all of them bearing at least a passing resemblance to Brian Blessed. Happily one of the this throng of mighty churchmen was able to give us the headlines in English, and there followed a good 70-80 minutes of listening and repeating, bread eating, altar wine drinking, crown wearing, crown wearing and walking in a circle, and all manner of utterly wonderful marriage-related lunacy and flimflam. Quite a show. So much fun that we forgot, for a while, that we were melting. Brian #6 had to step in and give Benj a bit of a towel down at one point, I seem to recall. Possibly the best element of this was the presence of a sort of 1970’s school caretaker (tall, thin, and wearing a very long brown- buff housecoat), who hovered close to the action at all times. As and when we had got through the use of one prop or gewgaw or another, he sort of dove in and nabbed it, and popped off to his lair with it for safekeeping. Seemed a bit much, to me. Bit Gollum-y. Certainly he didn’t seem to be asking “have you finished with this, you eminence?” or something respectful of that nature. Not so much as a by your leave. Dearie me.

At some point, and it was never quite clear when, it emerged that Benj was a married man. The church disgorged our bedraggled selves, and we made for the coach. And so to the reception, and a long and thirsty afternoon and evening.

Things started well. Strawberries, local fizz (unlike the Ukrainian stuff I was to taste a year later, it was okay), chats in the shade. All good. And then the mid-afternoon meal began. Entire flasks of perfectly-chilled Rakija emerged, with more of the lovely salad. Then a course of various ‘bits and bobs’ with wine, and, ultimately, a well-need sharpening coffee and some sort of sugary dessert. One became ‘chatty’ as the sunshine and the drink seeped its way around the blood. Not offensive, just enthusiastic. Shared an anecdote or two with some unwitting Hungarians.

I’m not sure, in retrospect, that our wonderful Macedonian hosts were quite ready for the speeches aspect of the wedding day. I mused for some time afterwards that it’d all come as a bit of a surprise, and was not really part of what would normally be expected. Anyway, this being an international affair, we forged on, the giant and wonderful Goran translating this way and that. Parents made light hearted contributions of a generous nature. Benj’s brother (the Best Man) rather threatened the smoothness and equanimity of proceedings with a lengthy speech that included an alignment of commentaries on the troubled Liverpool borough of Bootle (where once Benj had very bravely resided, despite two police raids) and FYR Macedonia. I think he must have thought himself quite clever. Some of us found ourselves rather looking at our shoes, none too impressed at our brother of Albion. Ho hum. Riot, there was none.

And so to Benj, and thereby to me. We’d barely got anywhere before he was on me, the cur. Always been a challenging friend, has our Benj, bless him. Firm believer in himself. Apt to rattle the cages of his chums. Lovely chap.

He was only about 90 seconds or so in, when he chose to tell the flagging audience that, today of all days, was his Mother’s birthday. Collective round of applause, all parties charmed. Then he pointed out that I had got married to STF on my Mother’s birthday (about 18 months or so beforehand) and on that occasion had sung her Happy Birthday, in ringing tones, accompanied by our guests. As such, with that having been a great success, Benj felt it only right that I should reprise the role, and sing Happy Birthday to his Mother. ‘Course he did. Scrawny bastard. No word of warning, just a smile playing on his lips from 30 yards away as he proffered the microphone.

It’s one of those times, isn’t it? Kill or be killed. You just react. I lowered the last of my Rakija and made out for the stage, smiling all the while. Into my paw the mike it did go, and I was straight into it. I’ll confess I did not start out over the first furlong really knowing quite what form I was in or, for that matter, what approach I was going to take, but it soon became clear, on that sun-blasted later afternoon, that I was going to go for a Baritone version of Marilyn Monroe signing to the young JFK. It won’t have been note perfect, for sure, and some of the intonation would have been a bit dodgy in parts. But, sufficed to say I belted it out and it killed. I walked off to a deafening roar of approval, the smuggest man in Skopje, as the picture below indicates.

Marilyn

I spent some considerable time getting over the whole business. Coffee, water, another glass of this and that, and the night rolled on. Some fell by the wayside, others danced, and drank on. I met an American, and we stood for a couple of hours at the end of some trestle tables next to a hug tureen of ice cubes, and sampled tumblers of many different firewaters from across the great continent of Europe, and talked bullshit about them. In the distance, one of Benj’s more louche relatives danced with my wife and periodically attempted to grab her bottom. We poured something that was black, herbal, and from Belarus, that was unutterably foul, but somehow found its way into the case the following morning. I only finally jettisoned it from the cellar in late 2011. At some point, I wandered off for a stroll, my day nearly run, and found myself weaving rather across something that seemed, in the glooming, to be quite like the Swilcan Bridge at St. Andrews golf course. In retrospect, I am pretty much certain that it was there that my mobile phone and I parted company (as I discovered the following morning, whilst packing), which was to prove simply ideal on returning to the UK to deal with things like house sales and purchases. Belarus 1 Self 0.

You know you’ve had a bloody good wedding when you leave last, and so it was with STF and me that night. We were finally levered from conversation with the hotel staff by the Bridge and Groom and into a taxi for our hotel, there to collapse for what felt like mere minutes.

Another day dawned bright. Us less so. Some rather ‘ask questions later’ packing took place. After a few panicked attempts at finding it, the old ‘phone was declared a casualty of the evening, and we eventually clambered our way into a mighty wagon, bound for the airport. Drinks of the world seeped from each and every one of the pores. The head started to pound and the lady next to me (whom I had not met the day before) talked incessantly at me for every yard of the journey in the way that only someone who’d behaved sensibly the day before could. She drew very few breaths indeed, during those torturous 12 miles.

And so to the airport, and check-in. The place was rammed, I remember. Aside from the purchase of the doomed DF vodka, we got ourselves outside of a couple of cold cans of soft drink, which brought the horizon, at least temporarily, into clearer relief. But, soon, there were delays, and squatting on the stone floor as the heat built. A resignation to a long day of rather bilious travel set in. It was properly etched into stone when we took our seats on the plane. I was placed in the middle of a set of three seats (never my favourite position as a heavier-set man), and did my best to relax. Whereupon three loud and ENORMOUS members of the Ukrainian National Weightlifting Team (two male, one female) sidled into the row above, and took heavily to their seats, rather threatening the aerodynamic properties of our bird, I thought. The shortest and widest of these specimens popped his seat back ( I am against this practice, and will return to it at wearying length), landing his vein-bulged bald head into the environs of my crotch, and I quietly focussed, as best as I could, on keeping all that Shopska salad down.

Right, I must grab the nettle and do a bit more of this. Let’s have a change of tack next time, and I’ll give you a work-travel tale, in the form of:

Nearly Losing The Gown (the curses of never owning a ribbon)

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Dec 01 2014
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Engagement, Holiday, Kayaking, Misadventure

Kayaking, or ‘My Search For A Short Engagement’

Time to bring us a bit more up to date, with my take on events from September of this year.

For accuracy, Saturday 20th September, as I was reminded the other night, when SWK remarked how it was already two months and more since we got back from our delightful Summer holiday in Dubrovnik (Croatia) and Kotor (Montenegro). It was indeed delightful, despite me being there for the entire time..

As ever with me, and particularly with tales of misadventure and misbehaviour, there is something of a back-story that needs filling-in, for context.

To go a bit further back in time, SWK had moved in with me back in the late Spring/early Summer. A delightful and exciting time for both of us. Emotionally very stirring, as we went about the practical business of getting her and the dog settled into new full-time quarters. Except they were not to be full-time right away, as she had managed to arrive at five weeks’ work down in Windsor, beginning almost at the moment the last box was unpacked. All very posh and very good for her indeed.

With a couple of visitations planned, including a quick whizz down to the Kent to visit my parents and the dog (who was Summering by the Sea; he always gets the best deal), I assumed the time would pass quickly and cheerfully enough. But, if ever I assume something, it’s a pretty safe bet to assume the opposite, frankly. As was the case here. I was, within three days of solo living, reduced to the state of a morose, lovelorn 14-year-old, only with less charisma, but better clothes. I was grumpy by text message, and even worse over the telephone, as it turns out that Windsor is some manner of blackout zone for modern mobile technology. I imagine that communications were, at least at times, probably clearer between the trenches and HQs of World War I. With every staccato conversation concluding in that beep-beep-beep-beep sound that went by, I grew more miserable and determined to visit whenever I could, to make up for it.

And so it was that I came to visit a sunny and delightful Windsor on each and every weekend. Lord alone knows what SWK must have thought about the prospect of my returning presence, as my morale and self- possession gradually nosedived through the working weeks, bereft of my lover and our dog (as I have pointed out before, I am a bit of a tit when it comes to not seeing the bigger picture). Anyway, she always greeted me with open arms, so despite everything I must have been doing something right, even if it was just getting a round in for her and other assorted thespian types on a Friday night. When lacking charm, apply a little money. Hmmm.

I think I reached a whole new nadir in our time together when we decided to take to the water, one bright and lovely Sunday afternoon. A little trip out on the river, before a spot of lunch. What could be better? Almost anything, it turned out.

The first error made was to save money by not hiring a little rowing boat with an outboard motor on the back, in favour instead of the gentle breezes, panama hats, blazers and floaty-dressed romance of rowing one another gently up and down the river for a while. Pah. Needless to say the first half of the trip was carried out with beautiful, smiling serenity by my all-time-favourite oarswoman, SWK. She had studied some manner of Nautical Higher, up in the wilds of Scotland, as a girl, and took to the whole thing with a natural confidence, and a smooth rhythm, even finding time to point out pretty things and elements of the flora and fauna, which I duly snapped with the ever-present camera.

Then it was my turn. The sun popped behind the clouds. A few water-fowl eyeballed one another and took off, and in the distance a church bell chimed a single warning. Even the ever-optimistic SWK decided it would be she who would “just get us back over the other side”, neatly negotiating the oncoming traffic, clearly having seen something in my shifting gait and wary eye as I prepared to reach for the controls.

And, yes, predictable enough, I was horrible at it. And didn’t everyone get to find out? When I wasn’t carving a zig-zag path into pontoons and passing boats, I was either gouging three feet down into the Thames with my oars in a frustrated attempt to gather speed and traction, or I was grazing the water lightly like one attempting a parmesan shaving. Soon the effort made me sweaty, and then shortly afterwards, as the hour for the return of the boat grew nigh, my childish propensity to anger with myself boiled over quite horridly. From the other end of the boat came sweet messages of loving support, dotted with advice, with the most helpfully gentle  and understanding delivery, about what we might be about to hit. I heard none of this. All I could do was gather up every negative moment of personal reflection I had ever had, and channel it into an attempt to somehow get the bloody boat back.

I’m afraid to say my language became quite colourful, as my resentment of myself and our predicament bubbled over. Alas, video survives, too. Ask SWK and she might show it to you. It isn’t, in truth, one for the kids. At one point in the piece, where SWK tries to assure me that there are other folk behind me presenting an even greater threat to shipping, I respond by telling her that they are NOT. That they are all rowing PERFECTLY, and that I am sat there “in a boat, in a hat, looking like a c*nt who writes letters for a living”. Charm personified, me.

It would have been much the better thing for everyone, and no court in the land would have convicted her of any crime, if SWK had simply pushed me in and left me to drown in my own resentment, there amongst the pretty reeds. But no, as she does every day, she stuck with it until land was sighted and the anchor weighed. The walk to the restaurant afterwards was marked with ever more elaborate forms of apology from me, at recurring intervals of about 15 seconds or so.  I felt like, and had been, an utter arse.

And so, we have established I am not terribly handy when it comes to the manipulation of water-borne craft.

Back to the Dalmatian coast, then? Exactly 73 days, to the delightful evening at Restaurant Dubrovnik, the terrace of which I would recommend to anyone, anytime. It was lovely. And made more so by the fact that that was the night where I asked SWK to marry me, and she (quite inexplicably) responded in the affirmative. She’ll be a long old time regretting that one…

It really was a fabulous night, I have to say. I’d done an amount of the spadework through the good offices of Trip Advisor, where one weeded out the greater displays of restaurateur madness. E-mails had followed to my finalised choice. Fizz and a corner table were secured, and on the evening itself the staff were just super-duper kind. In fact the manager accosted me when I went for a pee (this was in the Gents, for clarity – not a hostile arresting gesture because I was piddling in a plant pot, struck by nerves) to tell me he would “stop the terrace” if I wanted to go down on one knee in the middle of the whole place. I declined, and explained that I wanted to go for something ‘partially public’ and that this was part of classic British Reserve. In truth I don’t think he was that interested in my nervous commentary, and I might have been better to just shut up, but he gave us our desserts and coffees for free and took a nice picture of us on our way out, so no complaints there!

I nearly stuffed it up, by the way (just before we get to the actual kayaking bit). I’d mentally prepared what I wanted to say, and knew where the ring was, etc. It’s just there was always something going on with wine glasses or bread, or candles being lit, or SWK would launch into some extended anecdote so it would have been impolite to interrupt. We were debating dessert and I needed a wee again by the time I made a predatory leap around the edge of the table to whip out the sparkler and gush out the various sentiments in my heart. Needless to say this was just as a party of 23405676 Dubrovnikers were being seated behind me, largely female, and to a woman they all spotted what was going on, and there was a resultant soundtrack of excited squealing to my entire proposal.

Still, job done and all that. We weaved out to a bar for a couple of rather more lowbrow pints and some more photographs (once of which I took on my phone, and will add here, if the missus allows it) and then settled down for the night, looking forward to the kayaking trip we had booked for the following morning.

SWK Sept 2014

And the following morning dawned, and blow me, we still had to go kayaking. Nerves worried at my gut. The beautiful sunshine had, naturally, evaporated to be replaced by a slate grey sky, the like of which sits outside my window just now, during a late Autumn, East Midlands style. There was rain in the air. However, we had paid our deposit, we had gone to bed at really quite sensible o’clock, really quite sober(ish) and we were going.

I affected a light-hearted confidence. I had been told it was “easy” and “only” 10k – a distance I could run (alright, perhaps not on water), and what a wonderful way to start pre-marital life, in a tandem kayak, sliding around the beautiful coast as a loving unit. Yeah, it was going to be fine.

We got there on time. Our stuff all fitted in the waterproof barrel on the back of our sturdy-looking craft. The lifejackets fitted (I was nervous about that – in my head I am still about 18 stone, despite appearances being to the contrary). I could follow the instructions, and swing the paddle about in the way you were supposed to. We boarded the thing okay, and managed to manoeuvre our way across the rocky harbour with not a little elegance, featuring some steering the right way, with my beloved at the helm.

We were to be guided and to receive explanations as to what we were gawping at, in ‘rest’ periods (every  1000m or so, I suppose?) from a nice young fellow, with another chappie following up at the rear. They appeared agreeable enough, although they did observe that the weather “is not great, but okay”. 2/3 of the way round we would be stopping in a cave for lunch, swimming and photos etc.

Off we went, and things went, very rapidly, downhill. Within the first 150 metres we were dead last, dropping into a morning-long contest with a pair of Italian girls for Crappest At Kayaking In Europe. I attempted to ape SWK’s movements, as per instructions. All appeared, mechanically, just as smooth as it had been in the harbour, but progress was just soooo sloooow. The reason for this was not just the drag factor of the leaden buffoon in the bow (although I think we all have to concede that’s got to have been part of it), but the fact that the rain had started to sheet down, and we were now on the open sea, which had started to boil, roil and roll in a manner designed to capsize anything it could. Including us. At one point I looked up through my useless glasses to see, there in the distance, Noah, flicking the Vs at me, the bastard.

In fairness, we stuck with it like the rock solid couple we are. Not a hint of a cross word, although my familiar self-doubting self was just clearing his throat in the wings. The kayaks of our fellow tourists (they paid for under-boat motors – must have) were just starting to mass in the distance around our young guide. After a time, muscles aching, we pulled in alongside, only to hear something like “.. which is a really cool story! Okay, guys, on to the next stop then? Yeah? Cool.”

And they all just fucked off again. And, after a nice rest of their bronzed and supple limbs, at a greater pace than before. Gaaah. It wasn’t so much the prospect of the effort to be expended to close the gap that bothered me, it was the fact I was not learning a bloody thing about where we were or what there was to see. I started to verbalise these concerns, as only I will do at times like this, to my beloved. Lucky her – trying to steer an underpowered piece of plastic into a nautical gale, with the most crosspatch man in the world just out of reach of the paddle-slap he so very richly deserved, all the while ruefully eyeing her engagement ring, no doubt, as the future began to slowly unfurl itself to her.

The pattern continued to repeat itself. Paddle like your life depended on it for 20 minutes, arrive in a state of near-vomiting exhaustion, listen to 15 seconds of back slapping delightedness, cast a suspicious eye at the Italian girls and the back-marker flirting with them whilst smoking and jabbering on his mobile, and then set off again back into the maelstrom.

After at least 300 hours of this, we pulled up on the edge of the cave. Which was surrounded by a wall of foaming water, at which we had to hurl ourselves at full whack to give the chaps in there the remotest chance of pulling us onto the beach. Somehow this move was pulled off. Lord alone knows how, judging by the state of us when we emerged from the bloody kayak. Not one limb worked properly. Both of us wobbled and hobbled our way further into the safety of the cave, away from the rain and the swell.  I placed the possessions barrel on the cave floor, determined to try and take some photographs and salvage something from the experience.

I rose up from the barrel, turned, and tripped over a rock directly behind my feet, and fell face first into the sand. I was, as I had been back in the earlier Summer on the rather more placid Thames, rather less than a ray of sunshine about this. I lay there with a mouthful of sand and a quartet of burning arms and legs, freshly battered from the fall. I then launched forth a volley of adjectives to lend some colour to my experiences of kayaking to date. No one within earshot  would have been in any doubt as to the overall conclusions I had reached about the place of this sport in my life.

My guardian angel came to the rescue once again. I must do something for her, some day. She pulled me to my feet, gave me a little cuddle, promised we would never go kayaking again, and went off to source a sandwich and a glass of (oddly good, I remember, despite the suspiciously-large catering-sized bottle) white wine for us, from our tour ‘guide’. She even had him recount some of the information previously lost to us on the howling winds over the open water. Like a child, after a tantrum, my mood softened again. Inside, the kernel of guilt about how I lose my self-possession at times like this hardened just a little more. It’ll be tougher than a diamond, by the time I am an old man.

The fact remained, of course, that we still had roughly one third of this little jaunt to go. The clouds had certainly not parted, and the weather remained quite awful. Two things helped, though: 1) we were, inch by inch, going back to dry land, where I could gradually spend the rest of my life un-learning what I had experienced on the water this year and 2) we swapped seats. Initially, at least, we kept pace, although things got a little tense when a German lady lost control of her paddle (are they called paddles, by the way? I have already forgotten, which is probably a sign that 1), above, is working) and almost gouged out my right eye – missing me by a whisker. I felt SWK go quiet behind me, at that moment, probably featuring some sort of dreadful diplomatic incident. The fact that I kept my quite frayed temper in check at that point is one of the few positive testimonies to myself and my character that morning that I can give.

We were soon knackered again, and back into near last. However we both found something to celebrate in that TWO couples had brief periods of being towed by some speedboat (driven by yet another young chap who was all white teeth and rippling muscles), having become rather tired. A service we outright REFUSED to countenance. I’d sooner have swum for it, frankly. A victory for our faith in one another, and sheer determination not to be bested by the appalling conditions.

We returned, battered and bruised. SWK delighted, me mortified by poverty of mental resources, but happy enough still to be engaged to be married. Conversations about kayaking have been relatively few in number, since our return. A watered-down version will be replayed with friends, as a pre-dinner anecdote, but I think we both know we don’t want to relive it. Or more precisely to relive me reliving it. It was less than pretty. I am not a water baby. The holiday taught me I have almost forgotten how to swim, as well. Still, on we go, with adventures in Austria, Bulgaria, Greece and Turkey yet to be written.

For now, next time, I’d like to return to a couple of recent forays to Austria and Norway, made famous in my mind for not dissimilar turns of events..

Being Frightened By Hookers: A Two Parter (the joys of being British and Running Away)

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Oct 29 2014
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Airport, Holiday, Losing tickets

My travels with Swaggers; a two parter featuring the lost tickets, Gorgeous George and getting all choked-up in Flores

Part One

Time for some more reminiscences. This time we’re going back to the Summer of 2004. And some actual travel features; rather than simply some ghastly antics in not-so-far-off Buckinghamshire.

I had recently moved house for the third time. This was, of course, still the era in which one sat on a house and it magically accrued additional value and you made a few quid every time you moved. I had just completed this process, and siphoned off some of that money into a touring holiday with my best friend Swaggers. His ex-girlfriend (at the time) had been working at a travel agency and had cut us a good deal on a fortnight of being bussed ‘round some of the highlights of Central America. Principally Guatemala, but with some nice big sploshes of Honduras, Belize and Mexico into the bargain. One day I will tell tales of Twisted Tania’s, in Copan Ruinas, where we got drunk with the Honduran army.

We were a long, long way from all of these excitements, the day we met Gorgeous George.

We’d mustered in Harlesden the night before (in the never-ending corridor of a flat that Swaggers shared at that time – much like a lighthouse that had fallen on its side), and made our way out to Heathrow for an initial flight to Atlanta. First time in the US of A, for me, and only an overnight job before we were to fly onwards to the City of Antigua, in the West of Guatemala, to meet up with a parade of teachers, librarians, and other largely ‘right thinking’ middle class professionals (although there was a lad who looked like Prince William and behaved like a complete lunatic throughout, but he was something of an outlier – we’ll gloss over him – his shorts were filthy by the end of the holiday – oh, yes, there was also the Swedish couple who tried to get out of paying for a group meal in Cancun; we had to chase those devils down the street ‘or ‘strip’ as it’s called there).

I digress, as ever. Sorry. To Heathrow and to our plane we went, bedecked with all we would need. I had the dossier, considering Swaggers to be quite the loose cannon when it came to the preservation of significant paperwork. Ask SWK, ask my ex-wife (who’ll feature later in this re-telling of my travels past), ask my family members – hell, ask anyone, I love a good dossier when it comes to holidaymaking. That feeling of a seamless sequence of documents and maps, set out in an order to chime with the coming events, growing gradually thinner as one discards the unnecessary, before arriving at the final boarding card and so the return to Blighty. So lovely, so warming, somehow? I think it’s just me, but I don’t really care. I’m not getting on a plane again until January 2015, and I already have a couple of pieces of paperwork squirreled away for when I can legitimately start work on a plastic folder for the trip.

Wine and beer was served on the flight. Freely, and in seemingly bottomless vessels; you can see how these celeb types finish up being led away down the steps in irons, can’t you? And so we took our first missteps. Films were watched. Curious plastic trays of food were eaten. Time passed, as the libations went down. Eventually the Georgian tarmac was reached, but not before I had passed Swaggers his folder of tickets, so as to make use of the stub from the outward leg, to complete his Green Card (even through a fug of airline Merlot, I remember licking my lips at the prospect of a spot of form-filling).

He dutifully did as he was bade, and we began to queue to enter the United States. A process that was as unfriendly, circuitous and irritating as anything I can remember. Bearing in mind I am someone who seems to find almost everything irritating, don’t please underestimate that statement. It took the small matter of three hours, in total, and was more or less continuously undertaken at gunpoint. The country was, like the UK, at WAR, and seemed to be quite prickly about the fact that anyone wanted to go there. After an aeon, I finally passed muster for entry, and may, I think, have made the sort of glib comment to the sidearm-toting woman on the desk that can tend to get me in a spot of bother, but not on this occasion, thankfully. I look back now and think of that lost afternoon, and how little fun it would have been for any poor souls who didn’t have much English and had to go through translators and be asked searching questions about their motivation for crossing the border. It would not have been a cakewalk.

Into the bowels of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport we did go. A little dusty, and very much in need of fresh air. Consultation of the dossier revealed that transit to our hotel would be a matter of simplicity; a local train/subway from under the airport. First we had to collect our bags. As I had the dossier to hand, I asked the fateful question, “Swaggers, can I have those tickets back? I’ll hold on to them with mine, shall I?” Time slowed down, fellow travellers moved at a snail’s pace across the concourse, as the words came back.. “What tickets?” God love the fellow, he’d assumed the book of tickets, all of them we would need, was just a stub, and he’d unthinkingly binned the lot, together with his beer cans, back on the plane. I told you he was a loose cannon, didn’t I? Suddenly my dossier-world looks rather more of a cosy place to be, doesn’t it?

We were on our way across interminable transit tubes to Concourse B. A nasal auto-announcer just said the word CAAAN-CORRRS again and again and again. I had visions of us being late for the carousel and losing our luggage, as well as the fucking tickets. I bit my lip. Hard. Cruelly, we arrived at a better-lit station of the airport. Outside the sunshine and vitality of the open air mocked us, and our ticketless funk. Inside, unable to oblige my best and oldest friend with an argument, for it would have been a fruitless endeavour, I silently pondered just abandoning the bastard. He’d not have had a clue where we were meant to be staying. I could forge on, free, in a private bubble of pleasant order and calm. Yes..

Nope, abandon such thoughts, I told myself. Friendship means more than that, and you never know, he might be a good match for a kidney one day. As much as airline tickets even only ten years ago appeared to be one-offs, and irreplaceable, I concluded that Delta would somehow have magic machines and records and printers and all would, in the end, be well.

Against the prevailingly tragic tide, our bags arrived without incident, and we began our next three laps of the airport in pursuit of the Delta Desk. Helpfully, its presence was marked by another enormous queue. In which I left Swaggers, very much sans dossier, mostly in case he accidentally made paper planes out of it, or used it as a sketch pad, and went off to ponder life on the porcelain.

Which was my next error. I had imagined America to be, down to every corner and crevice, a land of sparkle and pizazz. Surfaces would be white and shiny like the teeth of their film stars. No – this was the rough stateside equivalent of that scene in Trainspotting. The bog was bogging. There was no roster of signatures on the back of the cubicle door. I’ve never been in an abattoir, but I imagine the smell would not be dissimilar to that which I experienced that sorry and woe begotten afternoon. As motions go, I have only known worse on St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin, where my trousers puddled in a carpet of torn-out pages of pornographic magazines and used hypodermics.

I scuttled back to Swaggers, yearning for deodorant, soap and a glass of water. He had gained access to a member of staff. To George. Gorgeous George. And, somehow, even without my dossier, Swaggers was winning. The paperless, passport-less, greenback-less, jug-eared administrative Black Hole was talking his way into a set of replacement tickets, without me. I hated him all the more for this, of course (I can be a right sour old git) but somehow had never loved him more either. All of those years of him regularly being three hours late when vising me as a student. The time he stayed in my room with an infected in-growing toenail that smelled so bad it would actually wrest one from sleep. The chaos and disorder and Olympic Class levels of mess he would poor down upon me. All of it, all of it would be forgiven forever, and certainly never blogged about once they invented blogging, if he could get replacement tickets.

Mine was a bit part, in honesty. Barely a credit at the end of the final scene. I think I probably called Gorgeous George (and he was a modern Saint, people – I recall we offered to buy him some beers that evening – he didn’t show, but he was probably pulling children out of burning buildings downtown – I bet he has a statue up somewhere by now) ‘old boy’ a couple of times, to add a bit of British Colour and Eccentricity, in the vague imagining that Americans (all 292 million of them at the time) lapped that sort of stuff up. He just smiled beatifically, made more phone calls, and called ladies on the other end of the line ‘doll’ and gradually, things were taking shape. Stuff got printed. In the final reckoning, $60 changed hands and we walked away smiling, to the train. The theme to The Great Escape formed an earworm I would be humming in the back of my mind until the end of that day.

I thanked Swaggers for his hard work and his charm in rectifying the situation, and getting us back on track. And plucked the tickets from his grotesquely hairy paw and put them back in the bloody dossier.

Come back soon, for more of the Good Deeds of Swaggers, as he saves my life in the jungle. Sort of.

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