North London Morning IV
                                    A FAMILY MAN
On our return from Africa my little family was temporarily living with Ruby, Archy, and their four sons in their council house in Dane End.  They gave us their bedroom and managed to cram their family elsewhere in that small house.
            The grey November skies and the cramped conditions were very different from the warm skies and the relatively comfortable house that we had left behind in Mtendere, but we did not have time to brood.  I had to get a new job before we could set about finding new accommodation: but I did pick up the new Renault 4 car that I had ordered from a dealer in Hertford before I left Malawi.
            I had already arranged two interviews before we flew to England: the first was for a Head of Department post in a secondary modern school in Loughborough.  When I went for the interview I did not much like the look of the area, and was almost relieved when I did not get that job.  However, the second interview seemed much more promising.  It was for a similar post in a large secondary modern school in Tunbridge Wells, from where the previous Head of English had left to take up a post in Africa.
            On the Thursday following our arrival in England, I paid my first visit to Tunbridge Wells and to the school, Sandown Court, which was in an almost rural site on the outskirts of the town.
            It consisted of a fairly new main building set on the  asphalt playground, with tennis courts nearby, with some huts on the other side of the main playing field and also a Victorian house on the edge of the field which contained additional classrooms, and, on the other side of the road, another large field which was used for cricket, football, and the annual school sports.  I thought that the school and its site looked very attractive.
            I was interviewed by the deputy headmaster, Mr Freelove, and representatives of the Kent County Council and the school governors. Mr. Freelove was acting as headmaster for a year whilst the real headmaster, Mr Littlefair, was in London on secondment to the Schools Council and would not be returning until the following September. I made a favourable impression at that interview and was appointed Head of the English Department.. I would be taking up that position at the start of the new term on January 9th, the day after my birthday.
            I was delighted, as was Hildegard when I told her that evening.  Before I took the train back from Tunbridge Wells, I had called at an estate agent in the town and collected details of rented accommodation available in the vicinity, though whatever we obtained would only be temporary, as we intended to find a house that we could buy in time for the birth of our second child which was due in March.
            We didn’t waste any time, and about a week later drove to a hamlet, Brightling, near Robertsbridge in East Sussex, to look at a house to rent.  We took the house which was about twenty miles from Tunbridge Wells and moved in shortly afterwards. The house had been a pub, but had been converted to a family home some time before. It was comfortable enough. Heating was by a wood stove for which we had been left a supply of wood by the landlord which was enough to last us a month or so.
            Brightling was quite tiny and consisted of little more than one street with a shop, the church, and the manor of the owner of the cottage that we were renting.  The churchyard contained a tomb, which was shaped like a pyramid, and contained the remains of a former owner of the manor, a man who had been thought to have been eccentric and possibly mad.
            Once we had been settled in, we set about finding a more permanent home which we could buy; and soon found an estate of houses being built in Tunbridge Wells within easy walking distance of Sandown Court.  We inspected a house on that estate and agreed to buy it, though it was not yet ready for occupation.  We would not be able to move in until some time after the new term had begun about a month before our new baby was due to be born..
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            In early December, we set off on our first long drive in the new car.  We were going to spend Christmas with Hilde’s family in Austria.
            It was a journey that would take several days and I was rather apprehensive about driving on the right in Europe.  In Malawi just as in England, we had driven on the left. Hilde, of course, was familiar with right hand driving, though she had not driven since she had left Austria for Malawi.
            We agreed that we would take it in turn to drive, and I don’t remember whether Hilde or I was at the wheel on the first stage of our journey that took us from Brightling to the car ferry in Dover.
            In Dover I inquired if my cousin, Gussy, who had become an immigration officer, was on duty.  He was, and came out of his office to greet us, and we chatted for a little before driving on to the ferry.
            When we reached Calais, I drove from the Ferry.  I fairly quickly realised that I did not need to have worried about driving on the right.  As all the other vehicles on the roads were doing the same, there was no possibility that I would try to drive on the left That was even less likely when we reached the motorway which took us past Lille to the Belgian border, and our drive to Brussels where we spent the night in a hotel.  Next morning we drove on  to Germany.
            At the frontier we had an unexpected delay.  The German frontier official was reluctant to let Hildegard enter that country as her British passport had been issued in Africa.  The Germans had become wary about admitting British subjects holding such passports for fear that the British authorities might not re-                                                             admit them.  Their caution had been because of the recent attitude of the British authorities towards Asians who had been expelled from Uganda and other African countries.  Despite these unfortunates being British citizens with British passports, Britain had been extremely reluctant to admit them.
            Fortunately Hildegard still had her valid Austrian passport, and when she displayed that, we were admitted into Germany. We found the German Autobahn much busier than the Belgian motorway, but we managed without too much difficulty. We spent the night at a a hotel in Cologne, and next day, by late afternoon we had reached Nuremberg where we were to spend the third night of the journey in a small hotel on the outskirts of the city.
            Next morning we continued our journey on, but after Regensberg the Autobahn ended and until we reached the Austrian frontier our speed slowed down somewhat, particularly when in rural Bavaria we were held up by farm tractors moving slowly along the road.  I think this happened more than once.  Happily when we finally crossed into Austria we were back on an Autobahn and were able to speed up, and reach Linz within a couple of hours.
            We were received lovingly by Pappa and Mutti, Hildeguard’s father and mother, and by her sister Greta: the love poured on to little Stephen was almost overwhelming, Hardly a day passed without a visit from one of Hilde’s aunts, most of  whom were not real aunts but lifelong friends of Mutti’s, who Hilde and Greta had known since their own childhood.
            Linz and its shops and markets was preparing for Christmas and there was a very festive air in the streets and squares of the city. 
            Pappa was now retired, but, of course, we visited the large bank which he used to run, and where, upstairs in the board room, Hilde, Greta and their parents had temporally had to live after the war when the Russians had commandeered their home on the other side of the Danube.
            We walked to the parish church for mass each Sunday as it was quite close to the family home, and also to the midnight mass on Christmas Eve; and then we feasted on Christmas Day, but not on turkey, which I had been told was not a Christmas delicacy in Austria.  I don’t remember if Hilde told me that, but I quickly realised that it could not be true, for the windows of the provision shops in the city were almost overflowing before Christmas with turkey, geese and other succulent fowl for sale.  I later discovered that the family’s turkeyless Christmas was because Pappa did not like turkey.  Nevertheless, even without a turkey, the food was magnificent.
            But our visit had to end soon, for the new school term was about to begin, and I had to be in the school to take up my new post; so, soon after the New Year celebrations we said our goodbyes and set off on our drive back to Brightling. We had no problem crossing into Germany from Austria.  The official at that frontier was not as zealous as the one we had encountered when entering the country, and did not question the validity of Hilde’s British passport.
            We followed a different route from that on our journey out, one which took us into France directly from Germany with no transit of Belgium, and we spent one night in Strasbourg in Alsace, and another night in the beautiful French cathedral town of Laon.
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            We settled into the cottage in Brightling and I prepared for the journey to school, but on the night of my birthday it began to snow, and snowed all through the night and next morning there was deep snow everywhere. Hilde and I worried about my journey to school, but I felt that despite the snow I had to attempt it.
            Fortunately, the car, which, had been parked outside all night, started as soon as I turned it on, and I set off, driving very carefully.  I managed to drive without too much difficulty until I reached Robertsbridge and turned on to the main road, the A21, but soon after that turning I was waved down by a man standing at the side of the road. He did not want a lift but had stopped me to tell me that I would not be able to get up the hill that was ahead. It certainly looked formidable, but I told him that I thought that I could make it, but if I did not it would be because he had stopped me.  I started up again and made for the hill.
 I did make it to the top, and was able to proceed the rest of the way, reaching my new school, Sandown Court, on time.
            Only one member of staff, who lived even further from the school than I did, had failed to arrive, which was not true of all the pupils, most of whom lived within easy walking distance. Easy or not, over a third of the pupils did not turn up that day.
            I was given my timetable and learnt that for registration I was to join another teacher in registering a Jupiter House class in a hut on the far edge of the playing field some way away from the main building.  That hut was to be my teaching base for several months, after which I would move to a new classroom adjacent to the school library in an extension to the main building which had yet to be completed.
            My first reaction when I looked at my new registration group was how small the children were compared with some of the youths and grown men that I had been teaching in Malawi; but I was to discover that, small or not, many of them presented discipline problems that I had not had to face in Africa.
            Very little real teaching was done on that first day, and because of the snow and the adverse weather conditions, the school closed early and it was still daylight when I was back in my car and driving back to Brightling.
            My timetable was mainly of English classes, with, unlike at Clarendon School, no classes specifically for Drama; but I had agreed to join a team for combined teaching on a special Humanities course which prepared fourth year pupils for living as adults in a democracy.
            Two of my colleagues were engaged in this activity, the head of the geography department, and, another English teacher who was in charge.  So far as I remember, my predecessor as head of English, who had left to teach in Africa, had not been part of this teaching team.
            This course took up most of one day, in which the whole fourth year was addressed by the team leader in the assembly hall, and then broke up into smaller groups taken by the individual team teachers including me. I hated the system from the first day; it seemed to contain all that I believed was wrong in modern educational theory.  The children were told from the start that this was their course and that they were under no compulsion to attend.  That startled me as much as it must have startled them, but there was no mass walk out on the part of the pupils. There were no text books for the course, and much of the time was spent in discussions which some pupils participated in eagerly, and a minority far too eagerly so that their presence distracted the other pupils. I came to dread Thursdays when I was faced with teaching on this course, which had been originated by Mr Littlefair, and had made such an impression on the higher authorities that he had been sent to the Schools Council in London, to pass on the good news about it to other secondary modern schools.
            There were no great problems with the rest of my timetable, even though I was now, for the first time in my career, teaching A Level English to a very small group of 6th form students, including Chaucers’ The Clerk of Oxford’s Tale.  That text was my first encounter with Middle English as I had never previously read Chaucer, or any other Middle English texts.  Fortunately the students were in their second  year studying that text as my predecessor had introduced them to it last year.  
            As had been the case at Clarendon School, there were about ten other teachers in my department, most of them teaching other subjects as well as English, and I held my first department meeting in my classroom on the second week of the term.
            Unlike in Clarendon School where I could never even remember if I was attached to any school house, at Sandown Court, houses were all important.  There were four of them, named after planets: Neptune, Jupiter, Saturn and Mercury, and the house heads were very important members of the school hierarchy, much more important than mere heads of department. One of them. Mr Burfield, the head of Neptune House taught English and attended my first department meeting.  He was much older than me, and had served in the Army as an officer all through the war.  We seemed to get on quite well together.
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            Driving to and from school was tricky, particularly when, in the snow, my windscreen shattered when I was on my way back to Brightling. I managed to get there without an accident, but that weekend I had to get the car to a garage for a repair, so that I had a complete windscreen on my drive back to school on the following Monday.
            Hildegard was wonderful during this period, for she was alone in the house whilst I was away.  She was heavily pregnant, and had only the village shop to visit, as walking in the nearby countryside was not really possible, for, apart from the dreadful weather, there was an outbreak of foot and mouth disease, and for the protection of the farms, travel was actively discouraged.
            Apart from school, my energies were taken up with moving into our new house, purchasing items for it and preparing for the imminent birth of our second child.  We spent as much time as we could in visiting  shops in Tunbridge Wells and ordering furniture, bedding, crockery, a television, and all the other items that we thought we would need. 
            Money was not a great problem, for we had several thousand pounds from our Malawi payments, including an end of service grant.  Whilst in Malawi I had sent regular sums to a savings account that I had started in England, and that was quite considerable, and there were also gifts from Hilde’s parents, so even paying the deposit on the house did not cripple us.
            Before we moved from Brightling my friend, Ken Rudrum, visited us and stayed for a week end, and with him we explored Hastings.
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            A few weeks into the term, we moved to our new house in Tunbridge Wells.  It was a very comfortable little house, at £4,950 purchase price, the cheapest of three designs erected by the developers.  We had considered the slightly larger design, but at just over £6,000 felt that it was too expensive for us.  The most expensive design was extremely attractive, but at a purchase price of over £8,000, to buy one of those was completely out of the question. Our house had a one car garage next to the front garden, and a back garden that faced on to Sandhurst Road, which was, perhaps, the only drawback about the site, for there was rather a lot of traffic along that road, and many pedestrians, particularly in the morning and afternoon when lots of children, including some of my own pupils, walked along the road on their way to and from school.
            Our week ends were hectic for we were in a frenzy of purchasing furniture and other items for the house: purchases that had to be completed before the birth of our baby in March. Somehow we got it all done, so that the little house was spick and span with fitted curtains, a well equipped kitchen, and, in the living room, modern units attached to the wall. For us, it was not just a house, but our first real home.
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            On the 19th March, Hildegard was in the Tunbridge Wells Maternity home, and I was with her to see the birth of our second child: our son, Thomas Alfred Baker. He was a lovely baby, and did not suffer from the problem of not making water that had afflicted our son Stephen, when he was born in Malawi.
            We were overjoyed, as were Mutti and Pappa, who came from Linz to be with us for the Christening.  Ruby, Archie and their children were also with us on that occasion so that our little house was rather full for the party that followed the ceremony in the church.
            The festive atmosphere after the christening was marred slightly because Mutti, whose deafness and lack of English prevented her from fully understanding the conversation, took it into her head that my sister and her family did not fully appreciate Pappa, and Hilde had some difficult correcting that misunderstanding.  Pappa, for his part, did not feel that he was not being appreciated.  He was a very gregarious individual, and clearly got on with all of my family, and for the few days that he and Mutti stayed after the ceremony, got to know our neighbours and made friends with people that he met on walks in the neighbourhood.
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            At school, Mr Freelove asked me if I would be willing to organise the summer fete.  I was not very keen to do that, but I felt that I had to agree as I understood that my predecessor had organised fetes in previous years. Now, over half a century later, I am still puzzled as to why the Deputy Headmaster had not asked some other member of staff to perform that task.  Perhaps he had asked for volunteers before I arrived at the school and no one had volunteered. 
            I had a very busy time over the next few months contacting potential stall holders for the event. One innovation that someone suggested to me was the construction of a speedway circuit on the playing field on which participants could drive miniature racing cars. That proved very popular with some individuals, but it was so noisy, smelly and potentially dangerous that it was not repeated in subsequent years. It also seemed to attract an unsavoury element of youths and young men, who did not seem to have any connection with the school, though some of them may have been brothers of our pupils or former pupils themselves. At one point in the afternoon a fight broke out between some of these individuals and police had to be called to break it up. By the end of the day I was determined never to agree to organise any future school fete, and certainly never to introduce miniature racing cars.
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            Another feature of Sandown Court School that I found particularly tiresome was an event held in the summer called Two Day School. In later years, to my disgust it was extended and became Three Day School.  This took place at the end of the summer term after public examinations were finished and during it, each teacher was expected to take a small group of pupils on some activity that he or she had devised of an allegedly educational nature.
            In my first year on the staff I organised a study of the British Commonwealth, which culminated with my taking my group of pupils to London on a visit to the Commonwealth Institute in South Kensington.  I think the pupils may have found it interesting, though I doubt if it created in any of them a particular affection for the Commonwealth.
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            Much as I liked living and teaching in Kent, I was soon aware that as it was one of the few counties in England to retain grammar schools, most of the other counties having closed them and replaced them with comprehensive schools, Kent secondary modern schools where the majority of secondary school pupils were educated, were regarded, with some justification by the public, as inferior establishments.
            Tunbridge Wells had three grammar schools, the Skinners School, the Boys’ Grammar School, which had begun life as a secondary technical school,  and the Girls’ Grammar School; and several secondary modern schools, whose pupils arrived at their secondary schools having failed the 11+ selection procedure, which was never an accurate measure of academic potential, and consequently the ability range always included a number of bright pupils who, but for the vagaries of the system, should really have been sent to grammar schools. Of course, the majority of their pupils were of average or below average academic ability. 
            The secondary modern schools in Tunbridge Wells included St, Gregory‘s Catholic school, the Church of England Bennett Memorial School for girls, which subsequently took boys also, Huntley’s Boys’ School, Sandown Court, and, in Southborough, the Ridgeway School.
            Sandown Court with over a thousand pupils, was the largest secondary modern school in the town. Locally it had a poor reputation, which it did not deserve. Its catchment area included the nearby village of Pembury, and, immediately adjacent to the school,  the large Sherwood council housing estate. Many of the more troublesome pupils came from three roads on that estate, Rankin Road, Caley Road and Oak Road. Some of the teaching staff believed that it was deliberate policy on the part of the Tunbridge Wells Borough Council to place problem families in those roads.  I also believed that to be the case, though years later I was told that the reason for the presence of problem families was that two of those roads contained particularly big council houses into which large families could be housed, and it was those large families that produced some of the more difficult pupils.
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            Apart from teaching and my busy family life, I was still studying.  Whilst I was in Malawi I had enrolled as a student for the post graduate London University external Diploma in Education.  I had chosen as my main element of study, The Secondary Modern School.  It required copious reading and obtaining the texts was not easy as I was living in a school in the African bush, but I did manage to borrow suitable texts from the British Council Library in Malawi, and from the library of the American Embassy.
            Those studies were completed when I returned to England, and I took the qualifying examination in London that year.  Fortunately I passed, and was entitled to add Dip.Ed. to the B.Sc(Sociology)  after my name.
            However, having a wife who possessed a doctorate, made me wonder if I could not obtain a higher degree, if not a doctorate, perhaps a master’s degree, and when the Open University came into being I wrote to it for information. At that time, they were not ready to teach higher degree courses, but the information that they sent me about their courses for first degrees was so interesting that I wondered whether I could enrol for a degree course, despite the fact that I was already a graduate.
            I found that my possession of a degree did not prevent me from being accepted as an Open University student and I began my first course, a foundation course in the arts: bought the appropriate text books, and waited for the course material to arrive. When it came I got down to study.  There was lots to read, essays and computer marked assignments to write, radio programmes to hear and television programmes to view.  It was intensely interesting.  There was also a study centre to attend, which turned out to be at my school in the manor house on the edge of the playing field.
            In addition there were some Saturday sessions which were held in Croydon, and a compulsory summer school for one week at various universities. The one that I attended was at Keel University. Although I hated being away from Hilde and the children, I found the summer school exhilarating, though it was very hard work.  The philosophy tutor, who was a member of Keel University academic staff told us that we had covered as much ground in that week as his full time students at the university did in a whole term.
            My fellow students were a mixed bunch from various occupations, but included rather a lot of qualified teachers, who were hoping that the Open University degree would bring them extra pay, and, perhaps promotion. I was mildly surprised to discover that I was not the only student who already had a degree.
            At the summer school I wrote an essay on Emily Bronte’s novel, Wuthering Heights, and I was highly praised for an essay I submitted on Hamlet’s motivation. We also studied Kafka’s Metamorphosis, the story about a man who is turned into a giant cockroach.
            The following year I took a second foundation course in social studies which included psychology and sociology.  That was not quite so enjoyable as had been the arts foundation course, and it too included a week at a summer school, this time at the University of East Anglia. In Norwich.
            However, that was in the future.  Still in my first year at Sandown Court School I experienced a school institution, the House Play.  This was a week of school drama in which each of the four houses presented a one act play before the public in mid winter in the school hall. Jupiter House production, The Dear Departed, by the Northern playwright, Stanley Houghton, had already been cast by my predecessor when I arrived on the staff, but I was very happy to take over the direction.  I thought it was a very good choice.  It is an excellent comedy, with a fairly small cast, and my young players performed very well, even coping with the, to them, unfamiliar northern accents.
            House play evenings tended to be rather lengthy, for four one act plays took rather longer to present than one full length play. Mr Burfield, the head of Neptune House, tended to present something that he or a friend had written, using as many members of his house in the cast as he could,  dozens of children, compared to the fewer than ten in the cast of The Dear Departed.  Burfield’s goal was maximum participation; my goal was to present a polished production of a good play. I believe that I succeeded; though it may be that the dozens of performers in the Neptune House play got considerable satisfaction from their performance; and I suspected that involving large numbers of children rather than attaining high performance standards was the real intention of the originators of the house plays.         
            One problem that I never had to face in Clarendon School in Hertfordshire where the assembly hall was large and the stage huge, was that the hall at Sandown Court was extremely small, though its stage was reasonably large. For that reason, some school drama productions were not held in the hall, but in the large gymnasium space immediately adjacent to the hall, where a much larger audience could be assembled.  However, as there was no stage in the gymnasium, but just a raised platform on one side, that meant that productions there had to dispense with scenery. Children could be crammed into the hall for morning assembly, though never the entire school population at any one time, but, as seats had to be placed there for drama audiences, the lack of space prevented large audience for our productions.
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            Towards the end of my first year at Sandown Court, Mr Littlefair returned to the school and resumed his position as headmaster, with Mr Freelove stepping down from the post of acting head, becoming deputy head again.
            I had wondered what effect this change would have on the school as my colleagues had not given me any indication of what sort of headmaster Mr Littlefair had been before he was loaned to the Schools Council. I was soon to discover the effect of the changes that would come.
            Before he arrived, Mr Freelove, as acting headmaster, had arranged the timetable for the coming term, and we staff, had set about teaching to it.  I was teaching a class one day, when suddenly 6th Form students arrived to be taught A Level English by me.   Mr Littlefair had altered the timetable so that I was down to teach them at the same time as I was teaching the third year students. Somehow I managed to cope with those disruptions, though I don’t think that the 6th Form Students or the third year, learnt very much from my efforts that day. There were other timetable changes that Mr Littlefair imposed on the unfortunate staff and pupils, but I don’t think any more of them entailed me teaching two classes at the same time.
            Mr Littlefair had several ideas for improving teaching efficiency which probably appeared quite good on paper, but in practice proved rather difficult to undertake.  One such idea was his insistence that all teachers placed in their staff room lockers, detailed plans of at least a week’s work for their classes, to be used by other teachers taking their classes if they were absent.
            I found this task almost impossible to carry out, as I suspect most other teachers did.  Certainly when I had to cover for another teacher in one of my free periods, I rarely found adequate lesson plans to follow in that teacher’s locker, and I was faced with having to devise a plan for myself, which, when the subject was one with which I was not familiar such as French, proved rather difficult. I spent one such lesson attempting to teach the pupils to say, ‘Parley vous Anglais,’ a phrase that might have been of some use to them if they found themselves in France.
            I was not alone in regretting the return of Mr Littlefair to the school.  Mr Freelove, as acting headmaster had been far more efficient, and in his post of deputy headmaster, still provided the most effective leadership at the top.
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            By now Hilde and I were fairly comfortably settling down to our lives as a family in Tunbridge Wells.  We did lots of shopping, including buying a pram for our baby; and became quite active in the church where we made lots of friends. Hilde became a member of a circle of mothers who baby sat for each other.  That was a surprisingly successful organisation, which had no formal leadership but seemed to work well because of the goodwill of its members.
            I had a copy of the Good Food Guide, which we used to select restaurants for occasional evenings out when members of the baby sitting circle would care for our children.
            One restaurant was a Spanish restaurant, El Fundator, in Chapel Place, which we had visited on the recommendation of Anglo-Spanish friends from the church.  We had liked it so much that I had recommended it to the Good Food Guide, and my recommendation had been accepted.
            We booked a table there for a celebratory meal after my birthday, and when we walked in the proprietor asked me if I was the A.J. Baker who had made the recommendation.  When I said that I was, we had VIP treatment and a magnificent meal, with a free bottle of wine.
            We intended to go there again, but never did, and about a year later the restaurant closed down.  Our Anglo-Spanish friends told us that the proprietor and his wife had decided to return to Spain, and had passed the restaurant on to their head waiter, but he had not been able to run it successfully and had caused it to close down.
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            At the end of my first teaching  year at Sandown Court I directed my first full length school production, George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man, a play that I knew quite well for in my twenties I had performed the leading part of Captain Blunschli with the Enfield People’s Theatre Group. 
            I managed to choose a talented little group of actors and had a good back stage cast, and the production was well received, despite the interference of Mr Littlefair, who told my cast to be sure to come to the front of the stage to speak their lines so that all the audience would hear them clearly.  As to obey  that instruction would have completely destroyed all the moves on stage that they had been rehearsing, the cast had the good sense to ignore the headmaster’s order when they were actually performing.
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            Once back in England, I resumed the membership of the Labour Party which I had held before moving to Africa.
            In such a Tory town as Tunbridge Wells, working to elect Labour was a rather frustrating activity.  There were, I think, just two Labour councillors on the Tunbridge Wells Borough Council. There were also two Liberal councillors, but the other forty-four councillors were all Tory.
            One of the Labour councillors, Jock Blakeway, had visited me at home after I rejoined the Party, and we became quite friendly. Jock was a very interesting man: a Scotsman, who during the war had been a sergeant major serving with the West African Frontier Force, in, I think, The Gold Coast Regiment. He was a councillor for Sherwood Ward, where the huge council estate appeared to guarantee his re-election. He was to serve on the council for many more years, and had been the only Labour Mayor of Tunbridge Wells. After his death a new street had been named after him.
            I think it was Jock who had persuaded the Labour Party to put my name forward as a candidate in St James Ward, for the Borough Council Elections.  These were to be the first elections for the new enlarged council which, following local government reform, took in many villages and some small towns, which had previously been part of Tonbridge Rural District, and Cranbrook Rural District. I was one of three Labour candidates standing in St James Ward, but we were, all three, defeated by the Tories, though I obtained more votes than my two colleagues. I continued my Party membership, though I did not stand for office again as a Labour candidate; but I regularly attended Party meetings, and also occasional meeting of the Fabian Society when they were held in Tunbridge Wells.
            I remained a member of the Labour Party over the next few years, though I ceased to be an active member, and became less and less enthusiastic about the Party nationally, as it seemed to be becoming captured by an element of left leaning activists.
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            During those first couple of years in Tunbridge Wells, with Hildegard I went to see  an amateur production at the Assembly Hall of Christopher Fry’s play, The Lady’s Not for Burning. It was produced by the Tunbridge Wells Drama Club, and was very well done. I was so impressed with it that I applied for membership of the Club.
            A few days later a prominent member of the Club, Martin Hepworth, visited me to welcome me as a new member.  We talked for a while, and by the time that he left I had been cast to play Duke Theseus in an open air production of The Midsummer Night’s Dream that was to be performed on The Pantiles. Each summer the Drama Club presented a play by Shakespeare or one of his contemporaries on The Pantiles and their standard of performance was quite high.  I was surprised that I had been cast in such an important part without having to attend an audition, but I was later to learn that such casting of men was not unusual, as though the club had a large female membership, it did not have such a strong male membership. Although I was an experienced amateur actor, I was not an ideal choice for the part of The Duke, for the lady who was to play opposite me as his bride, Hippolyta, was slightly taller than me.
            We would perform on the bandstand which was in front of a pub, with seats set out facing the stage.  The audience in the seats had to pay for the privilege of viewing the performance in relative comfort, but, as The Pantiles was open to the public, anyone could stand and watch the play without having to pay anything, and many people did.
            Performing on the Pantiles had its own problems.  Though the paying audience  in the seats were very appreciative, there was sometimes a rowdy element amongst the non paying spectators, particularly towards the end of the evening when the pubs began to empty. Some of the young men emerging from the pubs clearly thought that Shakespeare was not for them and vocally expressed their displeasure.  There were also traffic noises, in particular cars and motor bikes on the highway just beyond the Pantiles, and occasionally the sound of aircraft overhead, flying to and from Gatwick. Yet despite all this, I felt that to be able to perform on the Pantiles was a privilege.
            After the performances I was asked if I would be prepared to direct the Shakespeare play the following year.  I said that I would, and agreed to direct The Comedy of Errors, a play that I knew well because I had performed in that play some years previously in a Morley College Theatre School production in the courtyard of The George Inn, Southwark.
            However, before that could happen, we went on holiday to Ireland and just before we set off we had the pleasure of seeing little Stephen successfully riding his bicycle round the close with the stabilisers removed for the first time.
            Unlike my first visit to Ireland in 1939, we did not take the train, but drove to Fishguard from where we took the car ferry to Rosslare.  We had a cabin on the ferry and managed to get a little sleep before we docked early the next morning.  We drove off the ferry, parked the car, and had breakfast in a café,  My preferred Worcestershire Sauce was not available, but I found its replacement on my eggs and bacon, Yorkshire Relish, very satisfying.
            After breakfast we got back in the car and drove south to our first destination, a farmhouse on the outskirts of Bandon in County Cork.  For the whole of this holiday, apart from the final night in Dublin, we would be staying in farmhouses.
            Bandon, to the South of Cork city, was a town that centuries ago had banned Catholics from living there, but today it seems to have a thriving Catholic population.  Our farmhouse, which we had rented through the Irish Tourist Board was outside the town.  The farmer and his family were very hospitable, our room was comfortable, and the food was excellent.  When we arrived late in the afternoon we were served what was called High Tea, which contained a lot more than tea.  It was, in fact, a magnificent meal.
            There were several other guests staying in the farmhouse, some of them with children, and the farmer was happy to show us round the farm buildings, including the farm yard which contained a large bull that sat on its haunches and looked at us, I was rather worried at being so close to such a fearful looking brute, but as the farmer did not seem worried I supposed that it was safe enough.
            We used our car to explore the countryside, including a visit to Kinsale where we saw many yachts, and another visit to a coastal town which may have been Bantry. I remember one visit to a town where we saw a policeman in the middle of the road controlling traffic suddenly leaving his post,  he was going to his lunch.
            One day we drove to the city of Cork to visit my only remaining relatives in Ireland, Uncle Eddy and his wife.  When we reached their house, my aunt told me that my uncle was in the pub.  She gave me directions to the place, and leaving Hildegard and the children with her, I set off to find him, which without too much difficulty, I did. I gathered that he spent quite a lot of time at that establishment.
            He was pleased to see me and introduced me to his friends, boasting about my important job and about the car that I owned.  He was pretty much as I remembered him from my pre-war visit to Cork.  I found his Cork accent quite difficult to understand, but I discovered that I was not alone at that, for whilst he was at the bar ordering another drink, his friend, also a Cork native, said to me. “Can you understand Eddy?  I find it very difficult to make out what he is saying. He gabbles so much.”
            After I had accepted just one drink, I took him home in the car where he met Hildegard and the children, and positively drooled over them. Then we left and I was never to see him again.
            After several days in the Bandon farm, we drove west to County Kerry and Killarney.
            We viewed the lakes from a jaunting car, one of the horse drawn carts that are a popular tourist trap in Killarney. We also spent a day driving in our own car round the Ring of Kerry which is famous for its magnificent scenery; but we saw very little of that scenery as it was raining heavily almost the entire day.
            Much more enjoyable was our subsequent visit to the Dingle Peninsular, for the weather was good on that day, and everything looked beautiful. Parts of it reminded us both of the Mediterranean, and the weather reminded me of my time as a soldier in Greece.
            At one point a local man was giving us directions, when another man came up to him and they had a conversation in Gaelic.  The Peninsular is part of the Gaeltacht, the area of Ireland where Irish is spoken rather than English.
`           After a few days we left Killarney and drove North, crossed the River Shannon at a point that was so wide that we had to use a car ferry, and entered County Clare and made for the county town of Ennis where we were to stay in another farmhouse that was more like a mansion.
            We quickly became friendly with the other guests, including a German couple and their friend who had travelled with them.   We booked places for ourselves and the Germans’ friend at a function in Bunratty Castle, a medieval banquet which we attended whilst other guests baby sat for us.
            The banquet was quite splendid, though the food was not particularly medieval and included coffee, which had hardly been a beverage known to the Irish in medieval times.
            Entertainment was provided by performers who danced and sang in Irish, wore medieval costumes and provided a spectacle that purported to be a re-enaction of events in the history of the castle.  I have no idea whether it was an accurate portrayal, but it was very entertaining.
            Before the entertainment began we visited the adjacent folk park which contained several traditional Irish cottages.  I was surprised at how spacious some of them were and how very comfortable they seemed inside.
            Whilst we were in Ennis it was Stephen’s birthday.  We managed to buy him a toy farm set as his main present, which seemed a particularly suitable gift, as we were staying on a farm.  The other guests made a great fuss of him, and some of them gave him presents.  Later we set off to drive to the spectacular cliffs of Moher, with Stephen persistently calling out as we passed other vehicles, “It’s my birthday.”  This annoyed little Tom so much that after a while he would shout out, “It’s not your birthday.”  Which, .  of course, was untrue.
            After a very happy few days in Ennis, we set goodbye to the other guests and Auf Wiedersahn to the Germans and set off on the last stage of our Irish visit, to drive to Dublin.
            After half a day’s driving across the width of Ireland, we arrived in the city and booked in at our hotel.  This time we would not be staying at a farmhouse. I doubt if there are any in the heart of the capital city, but in a real hotel; which was certainly not a first class hotel.  I seem to remember that it was rather grotty.
            I have very few memories of the two days that we spent at that city, though I rather think that we looked at the illuminated Book of Kells in the library of Trinity College, before we set off for the ferry and our drive home.
            It was a very uncomfortable drive for me.  From the port of Dun Laoghaire we took the ferry across the Irish sea, and spent the night in a hotel in Holyhead before the all day drive across Anglesey, into Wales then across England to home.  My discomfort was because I was suffering with acute diarrhoea, which entailed numerous stops and hasty use of toilets at garages and service stations.  I don’t know why I was suffering in this way, but it was probably because of something that I ate in that grotty Dublin Hotel, but I somehow managed to complete the drive despite my discomfort, and once we were home my bowel problem seemed to correct itself.
            Back at school I discovered that I had acquired the nickname of RABBI, possibly because of my black beard and a mistaken belief on the part of some of my students. that I was Jewish.  Many teachers acquire nicknames and I did not find this a particularly offensive one, until I heard some students chanting it from the street at the back of my house at night, which I found extremely irritating, though there seemed little that I could do about it unless I could identify the culprits, which in the darkness of the night I could not.
            It was not only school children who thought that I was Jewish.  Hildegard had joined the Tunbridge Wells Newman Association, which had various meetings.  One such meeting was to be addressed by a visiting Rabbi.  Hilde could not attend that evening, but as it sounded interesting I decided to go. When I entered the venue, I was greeted with the words: “Good Evening Rabbi.”  I pointed out that I was not a rabbi or Jewish, but a Catholic member of St Augustine’s Parish.  The real rabbi arrived shortly afterwards, but, unlike me, did not sport a black beard.  He was a Liberal rather than an Orthodox rabbi.
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            However there were other things to worry me at that time, such as the incident when we were awakened in the morning by the sound of water leaking in the children’s bedroom, where we discovered that the tap was running and the sink had overflowed and water was covering the adjacent floor.
            Fortunately the water had not reached the beds and the children still seemed to be asleep.  We turned off the tap, unplugged the sink so that the water drained away, but there remained the damp floor of their bedroom, and the water stain on the roof of the living room below it to deal with.  Fortunately no lasting damage had been done, but we removed the plug from the bedroom sink so that it could not overflow again.  I still have no idea how it happened, neither child ever admitted to having plugged the sink and turning on the tap that night.
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            Now it was the second year following our return from Malawi, and it was time to start the production of The Comedy of Errors, which I had agreed to direct for the Drama Club on the Pantiles.
            Audition dates were announced, and I waited for the hundreds of applicants for the parts that I expected.  Certainly I was able to cast the female parts fairly quickly, but I had so few applicants for the male parts that I was afraid that the production would have to be abandoned.  I realised fairly quickly that this was not all that unusual a situation with regard to Drama Club Shakespeare productions, which, I might have gathered in view of the way I had been cast by Martin Hepworth without an audition to play Theseus in A Midsummer Nights Dream.
            However, in time we were able to cast the play, went into rehearsal and were ready to perform. The first performance was not to be on the Pantiles, but in the grounds of a private school nearby.   There that performance almost ground to a halt because Reg Matthews, the actor playing the father of the twins, completely dried when about to deliver the speech near the opening of the play, which tells the audience why he is in Ephesus. However, Martin Hepworth, who was playing the Duke, saved the production by a brilliant ad-libbed speech.
            “But tell me Syracusian,” he began. “Art thou not the man who..” Martin then went on to deliver, transposed into the second person, the entire speech that Reg had forgotten, at the end of which, Reg replied with a short ad lib.  “Yes, My Lord.” After which the performance proceeded without another hitch.
            It was wonderful; but it was extremely annoying when in the review in the Courier that followed the performances on the Pantiles, the reviewer went out of his way to praise Reg for his performance, writing that the Club was fortunate to have amongst its members former professional actors of his calibre.
            Yes, Reg had been a professional actor, but I suspect that his inability to remember his lines may have had a lot to do with the fact that he was no longer professionally employed.
            There were no further mishaps, though before one Pantiles performance it was raining heavily, and there were fewer people in the audience than in the cast: so, having consulted the cast and crew I spoke to the tiny audience before we began and suggested that as it was such a dreadful evening, we should cancel that performance and, perhaps, go to a pub and enjoy the evening in a different way.
            From the expressions on the faces of most of the audience I thought that there was general agreement to that suggestion, until one man spoke up.
            “I’ve come all the way from Sevenoaks to see the play, and I can’t come on another night.”
            So faced with that, we went ahead with the performance, and before it ended the rain had stopped.
            I did not direct another play for the Club, but I did perform in several of their productions, including one in St. Barnabus’ Anglo-Catholic church where we staged Christopher Fry’s play about St. Cuthbert, The Boy With a Cart. 
            The audience for that play was necessarily limited because of the size of the church, but the Club’s production of a dramatised version of Fielding’s novel Tom Jones, in which I played the Jailer, packed the Assembly Hall for each performance.  I suspect that had less to do with the reputation of the Club, but rather more to do with the fact that many people thought that they would be seeing a performance by the popular singer, Tom Jones.
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            Far better for me than the pleasure of performing on the stage, was the fact that Hildegard was pregnant again. I was able one June to take a day of from school to be present in the maternity home when our daughter, was born.
            Hilde’s parents had intended to be present at the birth, but as Baby Katherine had arrived two weeks earlier than we had expected, they had yet to arrive. Stephen was still at school on that day, but I collected little Thomas and took him to the fish and chip shop in Camden Road to buy lunch.  There he was bitten by a dog that had strayed into the shop; though he was not seriously hurt but our doctor dressed the wound. 
            Later leaving both Stephen and Thomas with the friends who had looked after them whilst I was present at the birth,  I returned to the Maternity Home to find a very happy Hildegard with our beautiful new baby.
            A new mother in the maternity ward was one of my sixth form pupils who had been made pregnant by another of my students, a sixth form boy, who had abandoned his hopes for further education, had left school and obtained a job in order to support the girl and their baby.  Hildegard told me that the girl seemed to be coping with her new child beautifully, and much more calmly than the other, more adult, mothers in the ward.
            These were amongst the last babies to be delivered in that maternity home, for shortly after that the home was closed, and pregnant mothers would have to go to Pembury Hospital for their births. Hildegard and I both regretted the closure of the home, for it was close to hand whilst Pembury Hospital was some distance away.
            Now that we had three children we decided that our house in Cedar Ridge was too small for us, so we began looking for a bigger home, and after a while chose a new three story house which had just been built in Henley Close, a cul de sac off Ferndale, but rather nearer to the centre of town than Cedar Ridge. It was a detached house, the last of six, and was on three floors, with  three bedrooms on the top floor, a very large living room on the first floor, and a room that I could use as a study on the ground floor, and a built in garage. The garden at the rear of the house was quite large. It was something of a hill, and sloped up to such an extent that standing at the top end one could see over the roof of the house. At a price of just over £16,000 we could afford to buy it, and we moved in when Katherine was just over a year old.
            A few years later, we had an extension built at one side, which gave us another room on the ground floor which we made a games room, a new kitchen dining room on the first floor, and a large new bedroom on the second floor.
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            I continued acting with the drama club.  On the Pantiles, I played Bardolph in Hal V, an adaptation of Shakespeare’s Henry V, and Baptista in a production of The Taming of the Shrew. That production was directed by Michael Elliott who had become administrator of the National Theatre.  It was an interesting production, made more interesting for the cast because Peter Hall, the National Theatre director, had told Michael that he might come to see the play; though on the night that we thought that would happen, he sent his secretary instead.
            I enjoyed playing Baptista, particularly when a fellow parishioner, who had seen the play and who was a theatrical agent, told me at church, after mass, how much he had admired my performance.
            Other productions by the Drama Club were in the Royal Victoria Hall, Southborough, where they presented for several years, Victorian Music Hall.  I appeared in several of those: singing solo, If it Wasn’t for the Houses In Between; appearing, in partnership with Martin Hepworth,. as an elderly gentleman with a gouty foot; and playing the part of the butler in a spoof melodrama; and singing solo the bloodthirsty The Ballad of Sam Hall.
            Also in Royal Victoria Hall was a production of Chekhov’s play, Uncle Vanya, in which I played Vanya.  That was a highly successful production, but after it ended I had become dissatisfied with the Drama Club, which, apart from the Summer Shakespeare productions on the Pantiles, seemed to have been reduced to doing little more than the annual Victorian Musicals; I felt that I needed more weighty dramatic experience so I joined the Tonbridge Oast Theatre, which presented a play a month in their own little theatre in North Tonbridge.
            My first performance with that company was in the play, Abelard and Heloise, in which I played Fulbart, Heloise’s uncle, who shocked to discover Abelard making love to his niece, has Abelard castrated.
            Over the years I was in several other Oast productions, including one in which, in a relatively minor part, I had to speak with a Texan accent, which I obtained having, followed the advice of the director, by watched and listened to the long running television soap, Dallas.  I only watched it once, I thought that would be enough.
            Much more enjoyable for me was playing a barrister who stuttered when it was raining, in the French farce, Hotel Paradiso; and playing the lead as the man who dreams of becoming pope in Hadrian the Seventh.  Even more dramatically satisfying, was playing the part of Oswald in the Oast production of Shakespeare‘s King Lear.
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            For the first few years following our return from Malawi, I remained a member of The Labour Party, but I was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with that Party, particularly when it elected a geriatric, Michael Foot, as its leader.  I was fairly sure that had they elected Dennis Healey as the leader they would have won the next election, but they lost it to the Tory Party which was now lead by Margaret Thatcher.
            My disgust was shared by several prominent members of the Party, who resigned to form the new Social Democrat Party, taking with them over thirty members of the Parliamentary Labour Party, and one ex-Tory MP. Nation-wide there were thousands of other disgruntled former Labour Party members, who joined the SDP,  including several in Tunbridge Wells, and I was one of them.
            We had a number of local meetings, and formed a committee, on which I served. Nationally, The party formed an electoral alliance with the Liberal Party and at the next local elections our candidates, together with Liberal candidates fought as The Alliance.
            I stood as a candidate in St. John’s  Ward,.  I was not successful; but the SDP candidate for St James’ Ward, David Sinclair, was elected. After that election there were still just two Liberal councillors who were now joined by just one SDP councillor.
            The Tunbridge Wells Social Democrats were very disappointed by the election results and also embarrassed that David Sinclair was their only councillor: for the committee had not approved of his candidacy.  He was a failed business man, new to the area, who had come to Tunbridge Wells in order to be near his children who were living with his ex-wife in the town. He had fallen out with his landlord who had thrown him out of his rented flat; and but for the kindness of an SDP member who had taken him in, he would have been homeless. When he had applied to be one of our candidates, one of the references that he had given us had written that he should not be accepted as a candidate.  Despite that, through some mishap in our organisation, he had become a candidate and had managed to get elected.
            Once elected, he managed to persuade the two Liberal councillors that he should be leader of the tiny Alliance group of councillors.  They were both ladies representing the Pembury Ward, and one of them, Hazel Hawes-Richards had been a councillor for some time and would have made an excellent leader.
            David was not an excellent leader.  He behaved like the proverbial bull in a china shop and antagonised most people that he came into contact with, including the officers of the council. He went to the Chief Executive and demanded an office in the town hall as group leader.  That demand was not fulfilled.
            At the council elections in the following year he tried to take charge of our election campaign and managed to alienate many prominent Liberals, including Derek Hawes-Richards, the husband of Councillor Hazel Hawes-Richards, and there seemed to be a possibility that the Alliance in Tunbridge Wells would break apart.
            Happily it did not.  We had some success in that election.  A Liberal took one of the Pantiles seats and I won one, the second of the three St. James seats.
            We now had five councillors, and, after the election,, we elected Hazel Hawes-Richards as our group leader, and I became chairman of the group.
            As a new councillor I was appointed to one committee and one group. I joined the committee responsible for parks and recreation, and became a member of the Personnel group.  The latter necessitated my attendance with other personnel group members
at a disciplinary meeting to consider action against a member of the security staff who had been discovered looking through the contents of the letter box in the town hall, which he should not have been doing, and at a time when he should not have been there.
            We witnessed this individual being questioned by the Borough Secretary in a way that I thought was rather unfair, though no one else seemed to object to the questions.  I don’t remember what punishment the man received, though I don’t think he was sacked.
            Apart from attending committee and group meetings, most of my time as a councillor was taken up with constituency problems.   When I was elected, David Sinclair passed to me some of the problems that he had been dealing with.  I was surprised to discover that most of them, which purported to be due to complaints by constituents were nothing of the sort.  It seemed that David had blown up casual comments made by individual constituents into full scale complaints.  When I tried to follow them up, often the individual who was supposed to have made the complaint, insisted that he or she knew nothing about it.
            Many of the problems that I dealt with, without impute from David, were concerned with housing.  The ward contained a large number of houses owned by the council, which were not purpose built council houses, but old property that the council had taken over with the intention of ultimately demolishing them and building new property on their sites.  Before they were demolished the council let them to people on the housing waiting list.
            The houses were in a very sorry state.  They tended to be damp and lacked basic amenities.  Several of them had outside toilets.  When I complained about their condition to the housing department I was told that as they were due to be demolished soon, there was no point in spending money to improve them. I could understand the financial logic behind such a decision, but until the houses were demolished, the unfortunate tenants were having to endure third world conditions. 
            In the elections in the following year, the Alliance councillor group doubled in size to ten councillors.  One of the seats that we captured was the third St. James seat which had been held by a Tory.  We were now the main opposition group on the council with Labour down to just one councillor.
            Apart from my dealings with David Sinclair as a fellow SDP councillor, we were seeing rather more of him than we wished for the he was now living in The Coach House, a property in Ferndale, in sight of our living room windows just in front of Henley Close. The Coach House was owned by the SDP member who had taken pity on him when he was homeless.  She was a delightful lady and we became quite friendly with her, though not particularly friendly with him.
           
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            Not long after my election as a borough councillor, Hildegard discovered that she had a lump on her breast.   She saw the doctor who diagnosed the lump as cancer.  She was admitted to the Kent and Sussex Hospital where her right breast was removed.
            She recovered from the operation, and apparently had no further sign of cancer, and was able to resume her normal life.  Nevertheless we were very worried about her health, but as the years went on with no further signs of cancer, our fears began to diminish.
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            All over the country the two Alliance parties were gaining council seat including in Kent, and both David Sinclair and Derek Hawes-Richards won seats on the Kent County Council, and we were soon winning more Tunbridge Wells Borough Council seats.
            When canvassing I was sometimes asked why we were two parties as our aims and policies were more or less identical, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to answer that question.  Nationally the leadership of both parties were considering a merger, which took place in 1988, with the two parties becoming one with the rather unwieldy title of The Social and Liberal Democrat Party, which soon became shortened to The Liberal Democrats.
            Not all the leadership favoured the merger, and some disgruntled Liberals lead by a former Liberal MP, Michael Meadowcroft, refused to join the merged party and continued to fight elections under the old name of The Liberal Party.
            David Owen, the former Labour Foreign Secretary, and one of the original ‘gang of four’ who broke away from Labour to found the Social Democrat Party also refused to accept the merger and lead a break away group known at the Continuing Social Democrat Party. In Tunbridge Wells most members of both parties welcomed the merger, with the notable exception of David Sinclair who continued to consider himself an SDP county councillor.
            I was extremely pleased about the merger of the two parties, and became a delegate at the first party conference which was held in Blackpool.  That was my first visit to that town, and I was not impressed by it.
            I think that the conference was held in the Winter Garden and I spent most of my time attending the sessions, though I also explored the town and the sea front. I thought that much of the facilities were tatty, and I disliked it as much as I disliked its American counterpart, Las Vegas, when I visited that Mecca of bad taste many years later.
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            Most years my little family would spend part of the summer holiday in Austria with Hildegard’s family.  One such holiday was rather special, for during it we witnessed the wedding of Hilde’s sister, Grete to her fiancé, Franz Zamazal.
            Franz had a doctorate in engineering, and was about the same age as Grete, I think that my father-in-law approved of the match, though my mother-in-law was not so keen because Franz’s family were not churchgoers, and politically supported the Socialists, unlike Hilde’s parents who always voted for the right wing Volkspartie.
            There were actually two wedding ceremonies: the first the official state ceremony in the Rathaus, and the second, the only real one as far as the Starmayr family were concerned, the religious marriage in the church.
            The Rathaus ceremony was very uninspiring.  Grete and Franz stood before an official who formally pronounced them officially married, and then we left as another couple presented themselves to be married.  The church ceremony was much more satisfactory.
            After that we were taken to a restaurant on the banks of the Danube for a splendid celebratory meal.
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            Some time after their marriage, Grete and Franz joined us on a motoring holiday in Scotland.  They drove in their own car, we drove in ours. I hated driving in a two car procession, but as our car was not big enough to take both of them as well as Hildegard and I and our children, there was no reasonable alternative to that arrangement.
            I had booked accommodation at various venues in Scotland, and the first was at a farm on the outskirts of Fort William which we reached after a long and tiring drive. It was not quite what I had expected.  Franz and Grete had rooms in the farmhouse, but Hildegard, the children and I were placed in an outhouse that purported to be a bedroom, but was little more than a caravan without wheels.
            There we stayed for a few days, using our cars to view the nearby sites. I was rather uncomfortable because before we left I had been bitten on the neck by a horse fly and the bite was rather painful.  Perhaps I should have seen a doctor, but I did not.
            My sister in law, Grete, mindful of the fact that she would probably never be in Scotland again, wanted to see everything and persistently insisted that we engage in longer drives to fabled beauty spots.  I remonstrated with her at least once saying that I was very tired.
            “You can’t be that tired,” she exclaimed, but I insisted that I was, so reluctantly she abandoned that particular expedition. Next day for some reason I went to their room and found Franz lying flat out on their bed, asleep from exhaustion in the middle of the day. That made me feel rather vindicated.
            Apart from exhaustion, the weather curtailed some of the longer expeditions that Grete desired.  It rained heavily on some days, though when it did not, the Highland scenery thereabout looked lovely. Despite the weather, we did manage to visit the Glenfinnan Monument to the Jacobean rebellion, where I learnt that there was still a living Jacobean pretender to the British throne; a member of the former Bavarian royal family.
            I think it was still raining when we left Fort William and drove North East to our next holiday destination, which was to a farmhouse near the northern tip of the Scottish mainland, between Wick and John o Groates.  On that journey I was very struck by the narrowness of some of the roads that we drove along in the Highlands, where even A roads were so narrow that they had some sections in which there was so little room for oncoming traffic and that occasional wider sections had been constructed as passing points.
            The ‘uniqueness’ of the scenery was enhanced for me when we passed a small herd of long horned, wavy coated Highland Cattle beside the road.
            We found the rooms in the farmhouse where we were to stay, rather more comfortable than the ones in Fort William, and the weather had improved enormously so that when we were on the beach at John o Groats the sun was shining and everything looked so beautiful and that I was almost sorry when it was time for us to leave and drive South to our final Scottish stop in Edinburgh.
            We did not stay in a farmhouse in Edinburgh, there can’t be many in the centre of that city, but in a small hotel. Edinburgh is one of my favourite cities, and we looked at most of the famous sites and also visited the zoo, where I captured on film, without really intending to do so, the performance of a pair of apes engaged in sexual intercourse.
            Finally, our Scottish holiday had to end.  We drove back into England, stopping one night in another beautiful city, York, and then drove on to Tunbridge Wells, where we said goodbye to Greta and Franz, and resumed our family, political, and educational life.
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            At school, over the next few years, I directed several student production which were well received though I was extremely lucky that my production of Barrie’s The Admirable Crichton was successful, for I discovered, when it was too late to replace her, that the girl playing the leading part of Lady Mary was an epileptic and could have had a fit during a performance. Happily she did not, and performed splendidly every night.
            I had no such difficulties in another play that I directed at the school, Tobias and the Angel by James Bridie, in which I was fortunate to be able to cast two talented and intelligent young actors, the Jacobs brothers, as Tobias and his blind father, Tobit.  They looked as if they really were father and son, and I had another talented young student, whose surname like mine was Baker, though he was not related to me, playing brilliantly the Archangel Raphael.  The audience seemed to enjoy the performances very much.
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            For one of our Austrian holidays we stayed with Hilde’s family on a farm in Upper Austria, some way away from Linz during which we walked each day in the surrounding countryside, and, at the end of the holiday the children were given little metal badges by the farmer to mark their walking prowess.
            Halfway through that stay on the farm Papa asked me to drive him back to Linz to pick up something that he claimed that he had forgotten to bring with him. Having to do so puzzled me because Papa was not usually forgetful, but when we were back in England we learnt that he  had been under treatment for cancer but had not told Mutti about the degree of his sickness, and that what he had forgotten in Linz had been his medication.
            Back in England we received bad news from Australia.  Ruby telephoned one day to tell us that my brother-in-law, Archy, had died suddenly a few days before his birthday.  The death had been totally unexpected, for he had not appeared to be ill, but he suffered from a sudden stroke which had killed him.
            Ruby was of course devastated, and I was grief stricken, for until that moment I had not realised how much I had loved my brother-in-law. However, I realised that it was fortunate that the death had happened in Australia, where her four sons, her daughters-in-law and her young grandsons were there to comfort her.  Had Archy died when they were living in Dane End in Hertfordshire, Ruby would have been totally on her own in that village.
            After the funeral, she did come back to England for Archy’s friends in Dane End had arranged a memorial service for him and a considerable sum had been collected for a permanent memorial there.
            We joined Ruby at Dane End for that service.  The village church was packed for the ceremony, for Archy, who had been on both the parish and the district council had been highly respected. When the service ended we drove to the house of Mike, Archy and Ruby‘s American friend, where Ruby was to spend the night.
            I think it was in the following year that we paid our first visit to Australia.
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            Some time later we received the terrible news that Papa had died. Hildegard had to return to Linz to be with her mother and sister for the funeral.  It was during the term, so I could not go with her, but, with a friend taking care of the children, I drove her to Dover where she boarded a ferry to Calais, and from there took the train to Linz, where her presence was some comfort for Mutti and Grete.  She remained there until the funeral and then returned to her grieving husband and children in Tunbridge Wells. 
            We continued to spend many summer holidays with Mutti, Grete and Franz in Linz and part of those holidays would be at a resort some way away from the city. They were always enjoyable, though without Papa there was always a sense of loss.
            Mutti would never let me pay any of the costs of these resort holidays, but so that the men of the party should not lose face, before we left Linz she would always hand Franz and myself lots of cash so that when payments were to be made we would not suffer the embarrassment of letting her publicly make the payments.
            I never knew how Franz felt about these arrangements but I always deeply resented them, and I think I resented even more that when we were in church for mass, she would hand the children money to put in the collection.  It gave me the feeling that in her eyes we were too impoverished to pay our own way.
            I discussed this with Hildegard at times, but never managed to get it across to Mutti; her deafness and relative lack of English, and my relative lack of German always meant that communication and understanding between us was nearly impossible.
            We did not spend every summer holiday in Austria.  One year we booked accommodation at a hotel in The New Forest.  The intention was that Franz and Grete would join us at the hotel after they had spent some time on a motoring holiday in the East of England. They did not join us. Whilst driving along a narrow East Anglian Road, their car was hit by an ambulance driving in the opposite direction.  They were not badly hurt, but their car was wrecked.  In their distress, they were helped by a British Army major who ensured that they had accommodation, and took care of the paper work arising from the accident; but this meant that Hildegard, the children and I were alone for our stay in the New Forest Hotel.
            Our room seemed comfortable enough, but that first Saturday night sleep was difficult because of the loud noise of music emanating from the ground floor below. Next morning we complained about the music and learnt it was from the dance that was held every Saturday night in the functions room.  We were assured that it would not happen on any weekday night, and as we were planning to leave at the end of the following week we should not be troubled by it again.
            That proved to be the case, and we and the children had a very enjoyable New Forest holiday, in which, apart from seeing lots of the scenery and, in particular the New Forest ponies, we had a very interesting visit to the Beaulieu Motor Museum.
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            One other holiday that was very enjoyable, but this time without the company of Grete and Franz, was to the Isle of Wight.
            This began with a drive to Portsmouth where we were to board the ferry.  We arrived with plenty of time to spare, so we parked the car and went to get a meal. We found a restaurant, ate well, and then returned to the car, only to find that someone had parked another car in front of it, blocking our exit.
            There was no sign of the driver or any passenger.  I looked for a car park attendant for assistance, but could not find one, but whilst the car was there, I could not move our car, so would not be able to board the ferry which was due to sail within very few minutes.
            I managed to open the door of the blocking car, got into the driving seat and turned off the brake, put the car into neutral, and then Hilde and I managed to push it backwards so that it was no longer blocking my exit.  We then got back into our car, and were able to drive to the car ferry and board it before it sailed.
            As we started to leave the harbour I looked back at the car park and saw that the offending car was still where we left it, so had we not moved it we would have missed our ferry.
            Our hotel, which was near Ventnor, was a former mansion which had been owned in the Nineteenth Century by the aristocratic former secretary of Benjamin Disraeli. It was very comfortable, and the food was so good that I toyed with the idea of recommending it to The Good Food Guide, but did not do so. The proprietor was the chef, and his wife the manager of the hotel. 
            Amongst the other guests was a Jewish couple with a daughter of about the same age as Katherine.  We became quite friendly with that family, and when we left Katherine was very upset at losing touch with the little girl, who she regarded as her best friend.
            Before we left we used our car to explore the island. There was a lot to see, it really is a little world of its own.  We visited Carisbrooke Castle where King Charles was imprisoned for some months, and then Osborne House, much beloved of Queen Victoria.  We saw the impressive rock formation, the Needles and within the Needles Park, the coloured sands of Alum Bay. We also cruised round Cowes Water, admiring the many yachts which were there for Cowes Week and cruising round the Royal Yacht, Britannia, which was anchored there.
            I think our children thought it the most enjoyable holiday that they had had, and Hildegard and I enjoyed it very much also.
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            I had frequently talked about the enjoyable holidays that I had on rivers before marriage, but Hildegard had not been enthusiastic about coming on one.  However I finally managed to persuade her that she might enjoy such a holiday, so one summer we drove to the Thames, at Chertsey, parked our car in a boatyard car park and boarded a boat that we had hired for the week.
            It was the largest river cruiser that I had ever hired, around forty feet long and constructed like some of the cruisers to be found on the Norfolk Broads.  It was raining when we arrived, and Hildegard had already begun to regret her foolishness at being persuaded to join this expedition, but we got onboard, and following the instruction that we received, set off up river.  Later we moored for the night and went to bed, but when we awoke next morning the sun was shining and our spirits rose and Hildegard decided that she might enjoy the holiday after all.
            It remained good weather for the rest of the week.
            I remember that once when we tied to a bank whilst we ate our lunch that the scene reminded me of a French impressionist painting of a holiday on the Seine
            As always at this time of the year there were lots of other hired craft on the river, including lots of boats from one particular hire company the names of which always began with the prefix ‘Gay’.  The company had been in existence long before that word had been associated with homosexual behaviour, and now that it had, had not yet got round to changing the names, so we still saw boats with names such as Gay Adventurer or Gay Cavalier.  It was not one of those Gay boats that had been hired by a German couple that we became quite friendly with when Hildegard called to them when she heard them speaking German when we stopped in a lock. They were from the Ruhr, and the man told us, in English, that he was a factory worker.  In England that would have meant that he was a manual worker on the shop floor.  Clearly that was not the case with this man, for he said that he had a doctorate in engineering.
            .  Later, as we approached Oxford we saw undergraduates in rowing skiffs on the river.  I thought one of them was my friend, Foster, who had been in the boy scouts with me, and was now a student at one of the Oxford colleges.  As we were near what we thought was his skiff, we shouted, “Foster, Foster,” but the couple in the skiff must have thought that we were shouting “Faster,” and speeded up the pace of their strokes.
            When we got closer to the skiff we saw that it was not Foster after all.
            In Oxford we tied up and went ashore for a meal.  We found a very nice restaurant where we ate, and our three children behaved themselves there much better than we had expected. Next day we explored that lovely city before returning to the boat and setting off to cruise down river as by now the week was half over.
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            My work at Sandown Court School continued, though I was increasingly dissatisfied with my position, and felt that I should attempt to obtain a deputy head teacher post somewhere.  This feeling was intensified when Hildegard and I attended a Sonnenburg Association reunion in Warwick, when Walter Roy, who was himself the head of a school in Norwich, told me that at my age, I was now over forty, I should be looking for such a post before I became too old to be considered.
            I made various applications for deputy headships, but only once was I called for an interview.  That was for the deputy headship of a Catholic school in Burgess Hill in West Sussex. If I had obtained the post that would have entailed our selling our house in Tunbridge Wells and buying a new one near that school, for it was too far away for me to have been able to commute each day from Tunbridge Wells.
            I was one of several candidates that day, and before the interviews began the headmaster talked about house prices in the area, which may have been a shock to candidates from the North of England, but did not bother me, for they were pretty well the same as those in Tunbridge Wells.
            When I faced the board for my interview I was rather apprehensive for there seemed to be so many people on the other side of the table, including the West Sussex Director of Education, several governors of the school and two or three Catholic priests. I answered their questions as well as I could, but obviously not well enough, for I did not obtain the post which went to a head of department from a school in Liverpool.
            Years later, a teacher from that school joined our staff, and he told me that the new deputy headmaster, despite his increased salary, was suffering grave financial problems as the cost of his new West Sussex house was vastly more than what he had obtained from the sale of his Liverpool house.
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            My council duties seemed to be taking up more of my time as the Liberal Democrat Group grew in numbers.  I was chairman of the group for a while, and, in time became leader. From the five Alliance members that we had when I was first elected, in time we rose to twenty eight councillors and controlled the council holding the chairmanship of all the committees.  However before that happy time, I had lost my seat when we had an unexpected electoral set back.  Hildegard asked what I would do now, and I told her that I would write, though I didn’t expect that I would write about council or Liberal Democrat matters.
            I enrolled on a creative writing course with The Open College of the Arts, a distance learning organisation which had nothing to do with The Open University. I found the course  very interesting, and it got me into writing short stories so that by the time the course ended I was writing at least one a month; many of them entries in competitions from Writers’ News.
            In 1994 I entered a story entitled Alexi and Igor in the two heads are better than one competition, and won first prize of £100.  Later I submitted an entry to the Writing Magazine Annual Love Story competition, and won first prize of £1,000 which was very gratifying. In time I slowed down and stopped writing a story a month, but by then I had written over two hundred stories, though only about ten of them had been published.
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            At school, I directed and played the doctor in a production of Hobson’s Choice, but as a new member of the English Department was keen on Drama,  I was happy to let him take over the direction of school plays, With him I co-directed a school production of Tom Jones, though I was mildly surprised that Mr Littlefair gave us permission to present a play with such a salacious plot. Another school production that my colleague and the head of the music department directed was the musical Grease, which was very successful and, we understood, was the first amateur production in the World of that American musical.
            Our talented head of music organised another highly successful dramatic musical production.  That was Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta, Trial by Jury, with a cast of pupils and teachers. In it I played and sang the part of The Usher, and enjoyed the experience enormously.
            Of good news so far as I was concerned was the fact that Mr Littlefair had retired from the headship. His replacement did not seem quite so abrasive, but when he told staff that the county council cuts meant that some members of staff might have to go, I thought about my situation for a while, and realised that if I took early retirement, I was then fifty-eight, we might be able to manage very well with my pension, and the lump sum that I would receive.  I discussed this with Hildegard, and reluctantly she agreed with me that I should apply for early retirement, which I did..
            I had to make a case to justify my application, and I pointed out that as Head of a Large Department I was blocking promotion.  That was accepted, and at the end of the term I left my position.
            Financially we were reasonably comfortable, particularly as I immediately paid off our mortgage dept.  However, I didn’t intend to sit at home.  I applied for and obtained a part time position at West Kent College of Further Education as a sessional tutor.  That involved about ten hours a week teaching A Level Sociology, and some English classes.  As the college was in South Tonbridge, I had to drive there every time: a journey that usually took about half an hour.
            Then came a time when I had to use public transport to get to the college for my car was stolen.
            I had been chairing a party meeting in a hired room at the Imperial Pub in Southborough, and when the meeting ended I walked to the public car park where I had left my car; but to find no car there, but just a pile of broken glass.
            On my way home I called at the police station to report the theft, but the car was never recovered.  However, the insurance company paid up and I was able to purchase a new car within a fairly short time and could drive to college again.
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            Soon it was time for Stephen, who was nearly eighteen, to attempt to obtain a university place.  He had done very well in his A Level examinations, and had applied for a place at Jesus College, Oxford.  He was called for an interview, but was not offered a place, but he was offered a place to read English at York University, which he accepted.
            I felt a little strange when Stephen left to begin his studies at York, I knew that soon we would probably lose Thomas to a university, and then, a few years later, Katherine would go to another one. 
            Stephen settled in well in his studies, and the following summer, leaving Tom, in charge of the house in our absence, Hildegard and I visited him. York is a beautiful city, and the university, which was then comparatively new, has a lovely setting.
            We met some of Stephen’s university friends, saw the great cathedral, and went to mass in the Catholic church which was not far from the cathedral, though not architecturally anything like as interesting.
            When we returned home, we discovered that Tom had not been totally successful in his task of looking after the house in our absence.  There was a mark on one of the doors that had been made by one of his friends who he had invited to a party he had held.
            During one of the university vacations, Stephen brought one of his lady friends, Caroline, to stay with us.  She was a lively girl, but neither Hildegard or myself were particularly keen on her, and we were both rather pleased that subsequently that friendship did not develop into something stronger; but he did become attached to another female student, Pennie, who we quite liked, and who, during one vacation, went with him to visit our relations in Linz. 
            However, soon after that they fell apart, and then he met another York student, with whom he fell in love. Michele Armstrong, whose parents, originally from the North of England, lived in Crawley, not too far from Tunbridge Wells.
            They became engaged, and soon after they graduated, they were married in Crawley.
            Michele was an Anglican, and they were married in an Anglican church, but Noel Lewenze, a deacon from our Catholic church, took part in the ceremony and gave a Catholic blessing to the married couple.
            The reception, which Michele’s father organised, was held in a hall in Crawley.  Lots of Stephen and Michele’s York friends were present, as was Grete who had come over from Linz for the marriage.
            At the end of the reception, the young couple left for their honeymoon in Morocco.
            I was very pleased that Stephen and Michele were happily married, but Hildegard was not so pleased.  She felt that Stephen was too young to be married, particularly as he was only at the start of his teaching career.  At the end of his York University studies he had spent a year at Leeds University, working towards a post graduate teaching certificate, and had now obtained a post at a secondary modern school in Dagenham, and he and Michele were living in a rented flat in that area.
            Perhaps it was because of worrying about Stephen that Hildegard became ill.  Our doctor did not seem to be able to cope with her illness and seemed to suggest that it was psychosomatic, so we changed to a new doctor at another medical practice.
            Despite her illness, we went on holiday to Venice, a city that Hildegard had visited before, though I had not, but her medical condition was such that she had to see a doctor whilst we were there, and on our return, our new doctor made an appointment for Hildegard to see a psychiatrist.
            After he had examined her and discussed her feelings, he diagnosed her as suffering from what was then called manic depression, though it is now known as bipolar disorder. Certainly her behaviour had been strange of late.   She had thought that some radio programmes we heard were about her; and, on one evening she had become convinced that Bill Scott was about to arrive.
            She was given medication to alleviate her condition; and for a while admitted to the psychiatric wing at Pembury Hospital, where I visited her several times. These treatments seemed to be having some effect, and for most of the time she behaved normally, and was able to resume her previous way of life, including occasionally helping at a charity shop for cancer relief in Tunbridge Wells.
            By this time Hildegard and I were living alone in the house, for all three of our children had obtained university places and were only home during the university vacations.
            Tom had been accepted by Merton College, Oxford where he would read for a degree in English literature. We were delighted at his acceptance by an Oxford University college. Tom was giving accommodation in a Merton College residence, which was quite close to the college. He would take his meals in the college refectory which had the reputation of providing the best cooked meals in the university.
            I think both Tom in Oxford, and Stephen in York had completed their degree studies when Katherine obtained a university place to read theology at St. Andrew’s University in Scotland.
            Of course that entailed a considerably longer journey from Tunbridge Wells, and when we drove to visit her in St Andrews our drive necessitated our spending a night at a hotel in northern England before we reached Scotland.
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            Following the loss of my borough council seat I stood as a Liberal Democrat candidate at the next county council election.  I contested the Tunbridge Wells Central Division which covered two Borough Council Wards, Culverden and St John’s. That election was a disaster for the Tories for they lost control of the County and I was one of the victorious candidates and for the next four years drove regularly to County Hall in Maidstone to attend County Council meetings.
            The Liberal Democrat Group formed a coalition with the Labour Group and took control of the County Council with members of both parties appointed to chairmanship of the various committees.
            I found being a member of the controlling group on the county council quite satisfying. It was the first time that the Tories had lost control of the council for very many years.  They were still the largest party on the council, but the combined Labour and Liberal Democrat councillors had far more seats.
            The change of control was featured heavily in the national press, and the Guardian noted that one of the new Labour councillors was the actress who had played the leading lady in the comedy series Citizen Smith, and that the Tories had lost the Tunbridge Wells Central Division to the Liberal Democrats.  That was the seat that I had won, though the report did not mention my name.
            The actual council chamber was very impressive with a semicircle arrangement of desks facing the raised dais for the chairman and the senior officers and a microphone at each desk. 
            On the same floor were the offices of the party leaders and the councillors‘ dining room where the food was very good, and which contained a licensed bar.
            On the ground floor was the members’ room which was large and very comfortable with many armchairs.  I thought that it looked like something one might find in a London gentleman’s club.
            I was a county councillor for four years, but stood down at the next county council election.  However, during that time I had been re-elected to the Borough Council, taking a St John’s Ward seat from the Tories. My party was now in control of the Borough Council, but we and Labour had lost control of the county council to the Tories.
            We controlled the Borough for four years, and during that time four Liberal Democrats became mayor.  The first was the member for Capel, the seat that we had won when the Tory member, the then Mayor, had been disgraced for embezzling funds.  The second was Ruth Baker, who was no relation of mine, but who had then left the party and became independent. The third was David Mills with whom Hildegard and I were very friendly; and the fourth was me.
            I had invited Ruby from Australia for the mayor making ceremony and paid for her fare, but in the election that preceded the ceremony, I thought that I might not become mayor, for we lost control of the council, losing all twelve seats that we had been defending.   However, when after that disastrous count, I asked the senior Tory councillor what was to become of me; he replied that I was still going to become mayor, the election had not changed that.
            A few days later I met Ruth Baker outside the town hall.  She congratulated me on being chosen as mayor.  I  thanked her, but said that I was very unhappy about our loss of seats in the borough election.
            “Whose fault was that?” She asked.
            “Yours!” I replied.
            That sounded rather harsh, but I believed it to be partially true, for the adverse publicity the local party received when Ruth resigned was not good for its reputation though nor was the fact that another of our councillors had joined the Labour Party and a third had turned Tory.
 
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            When I was no longer a teacher, or a member of the council I had time for other things.  I spent a lot of time writing, and for some time managed to write at least one short story a month, though very few were published.  Through the Tunbridge Wells Writers’ Circle, of which I was a member, I discovered a journal Magnet, which was distributed free in East Sussex, and which accepted occasional short stories.  It accepted three of my stories, Tongue Tied on the Road to Waco, The Ghost Storey, and Mandrake, for each of which I was paid £50.  I also won a prize of £100 from Writers’ News, for my story, Alexi and Igor, and another prize of £1,000 from its sister publication,  Writing Magazine for winning their annual love story competition with my story, Harmony.
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            When we were getting close to our twenty first wedding anniversary, we decided that we should spend some time back in Malawi.  We were still in touch with the Marist Brothers and they indicated that they would be delighted if we stayed with them, so I booked our flights, which was not as straightforward as it might have been for at that time there were no direct flights from London to Malawi, so our journey required using three different flights.
            At 9.30 a.m. on Tuesday  the 24th July, Brian Beeley arrived, as promised, to drive us to Heathrow. He seemed surprised at our lack of luggage; just  two suitcases, and two small bags; and said that when he and Jane went to France for a week, they took much more than that.  We replied that we thought we had far too much.  As it happens we were right: in our three weeks in Africa, neither of us used even half the clothes that we had brought.  I wish that we had followed the advice of Paul Theroux, who in an article on travel in China in the Observer Magazine, had written that even on a trip round the world, he would take little more than a change of underwear and a couple of shirts; but I've never quite had the nerve to completely emulate Theroux.  I haven't the faith that I would get by for more than a couple of days with as little as that.
            The journey to Heathrow was quicker than I can ever remember: for once there were no contra-flow hold-ups on the M25, so we arrived at the airport far too early.  When we checked in at the Lufthansa desk, we were given boarding cards for Mr A and Mrs D Baker.  We pointed out that Hilde's initial was H, but the girl at the desk seemed to think that that was simply a typing error.  As we were to discover later, she was quite wrong about that.
            Our plane was late, but only by thirty minutes, which almost counts as on time these days.  As we made our way to the departure lounge, we struck up a conversation with a Malawian lady, who was married to an Englishman, with a home in Somerset; and with a couple from Tyneside, like ourselves returning for their first holiday in Malawi since leaving that country.  He had been on the staff of the Polytechnic in Blantyre for many years. The Malawian lady was going back alone for the first time in six years.  She told us that the roads in Malawi were still very bad.  Actually, we were to find, that with very few exceptions they were a lot better than they had been when we left the country in 1967.
            Service on the plane, an Airbus, seemed well up to the standards of legendary Teutonic efficiency, but the same could not be said of the service at Frankfurt Airport, where we were to spend the rest of the day. My previous experience of Frankfurt Lufthaven, had been that of terminating or commencing journeys there.  On those occasions one had moved through relatively quickly and had encountered no problems.  Changing planes at Frankfurt was a totally different matter.  The terminal buildings are vast: so are those at Heathrow for that matter, but the latter  seem to be much more inviting  to the traveller.  It wasn't just a question of language.  My German is poor, but my wife's is perfect: as it should be as she is an Austrian born German teacher. 
            When we emerged from the plane, we learnt that, as transit passengers, we would have to obtain new boarding cards for the next flight: but at that point there seemed to be no information as to where we were to get those cards.  We were in a vast corridor, with very few people about.  We went from one end to the other, and finally managed to learn that our flight would leave from one of the B Gates (We were in the area of A Gates). To get to the B section entailed a Kafkaesque journey along further corridors, up and down escalators, though automatic doors, and along even more corridors. Sometimes we had to walk, and sometimes we travelled on moving belts, until finally we arrived in the B gate area.  This too consisted of long wide corridors, with some shops, a stand-up bar in the centre of the concourse, and very many seats, though most of them were occupied, and an escalator leading up to a restaurant. 
            By now we were both rather weary, so finding the last two unoccupied couches (That is one improvement on Heathrow, couches on which one can recline), we slumped down.  There was no real hurry to get our boarding cards.  It was early afternoon, and our next flight was not due to take off until 10 p.m.
            We both read for a while.  I finished the International Guardian that I had picked up on the plane and then I turned to Granta, but after a while I started to get restless, and suggested to Hilde that we should look for the desk with the boarding cards.  Hilde, sensibly, told me that there was no hurry, and not to keep worrying. That kept me quiet for a short while: but the nagging, and totally stupid, fear that we would not get  the cards in time, at last compelled me to get up and recommence my perambulation up and down the corridor. 
            In time, I did manage to find the correct desk, and obtained my boarding card, but not Hilde's, as she had to present her passport and ticket to them personally before they would issue it.  On my way back, I took the escalator up to the restaurant, to see if some cheap food was available.  It wasn't so much the question of money, but rather  that neither of us wanted the bother of sitting down to a formal meal.  Unfortunately, although there was a sign that indicated that the establishment had a snack bar, I could not find it: and subsequently, neither could Hilde.
            When I returned to Hilde, I persuaded her, with some difficulty, to leave her seat and go for her boarding card.  She was sure that once she had done so, there would be no unoccupied seats left.  I went with her, and afterwards, having examined the restaurant again, we descended to the snack bar, and bought and consumed ham-rolls. I had a beer, but as there seemed to be no coffee and she didn't fancy a soft drink, Hilde had to content herself with a sip or two from my beaker.  Then, as time was running on, we made our way to the seating by Gate B59, where our fellow passengers were already collecting for the flight.
            Our plane, when it came was a wide-bodied Douglas, of the Mozambique airline, on loan to Zambia Airways.  As was the case with  our earlier flight, the take off was to be delayed, but no seat numbers had been allocated, and passengers were expected to take the first seat available, we were pleased to be near the front of the queue for boarding. However, our pleasure was short-lived, for suddenly we were told that the exit was behind us, so the whole queue turned round, and we were no longer at the font but at the far end.  In time the exit door opened, and the queue began the slow shuffle   forward and then through the door, then down a flight of steps, and out on to the tarmac.  There, in front of the plane, lay all the luggage in two long rows.  Each passenger was expected to identify his or her items before they were placed in the hold: a sensible precaution in view of the sometimes successful attempts that have been made to blow up planes, and the fact  that this particular plane was owned by a country that was still in a state of civil war, but not one that commended itself to us, late at night at Frankfurt.  Nevertheless, without too much difficulty, we identified our luggage, climbed aboard, and found two seats in a centre row.
            One of our fellow passengers, a student teacher from the North of England, on her way to Zimbabwe for a month of social work, was not so lucky.  Her luggage was not to be found.  Under such circumstances, I think I would have been a nervous wreck, yet, she seemed to be extraordinarily calm about her misfortune.  She rather thought that if the case did not turn up she would be able to borrow gear from her friends, or, perhaps pick items up cheaply in the markets.
            Like most people, I was by now fairly blasé about flying, but I did find stepping on to this plane quite interesting.  The cabin crew seemed all to be Zambians, but the captain, a Captain Fernandez, appeared, from  his name, to be Portuguese, though, I suppose he could have been a Mozambican of Portuguese stock.  In the centre of the bulkhead separating the first class from the remainder of the passengers, was  a large painting of a group of emaciated Africans, with what appeared to be clubs in their hands, though they  could, just have easily, have been implements for pounding maize.  They all looked  rather angry.  It seemed a rather odd picture to find there; for the air line, presumably, hoped to attract visitors to Mozambique.  It was, if anything, rather frightening.
            Before take off, the stewardesses distributed glasses of ice cold orange juice, which was quite refreshing, though it all had to be drunk and the glasses collected before take off began.  By the time we were in the air, it was nearly midnight, yet dinner was served. When it had been eaten, and most people were preparing to sleep, the cabin crew reversed the portrait of angry Africans, and revealed a screen.  We were to be treated to an in-flight movie, and earphones were distributed to all who wanted them.
            I took a set, though I was already pretty tired; but the film had already started, 'Internal Affairs' with Richard Gear,  and as it had had rather good reviews, I thought that I would try to stay awake a little longer.  It did, indeed, seem to be quite a good film, but the sound quality coming over the earphones was so poor, that I almost gave up the effort.  More than half the passengers within my view were attempting to sleep, some, perhaps successfully, but after about an hour of the film, the entire cabin was jerked awake by an abrupt  announcement over the loudspeaker system that the cabin crew wished to apologise for the poor sound quality of the film.  The film ended soon after that, and I drifted off into uncomfortable sleep.
            That night was the most restless that I have ever spent on an aeroplane.  That may not have been the fault of the seat design, but may instead have been due to the fact that since my last all-night flight, many years ago, I had developed a slight curvature of the spine, and, as a consequence, could not sit comfortably for any length of time.  I would sleep fitfully for half an hour or so;  wake feeling dreadfully uncomfortable; shift my position slightly, and, in time, doze off; only to wake up again after another half hour, feeling even more uncomfortable, but now with the discomfort in a different section of my spinal column.  Perhaps I would have been rather more comfortable, if I had placed the blankets that the airline had provided for warmth, over my legs, rather than sitting on them.  Round about three in the morning I had that very thought, but by then I was too tired to do anything so positive as removing the blankets from the seat.
            Around dawn I gave up the effort of trying to sleep, and sat up straight in a partially successful attempt to reduce the discomfort to my aching back.  Some other insomniacs were beginning to stir, and there was already a small queue outside the nearest toilet compartment.  I sat for perhaps half an hour, watching people enter and leave the toilet.  I must have dozed off for a while, for I suddenly noticed that the 'toilet free' sign was on, so I got up and made for the toilet door.  Unfortunately, the sign must have been faulty, for the compartment was occupied.  I waited, rather self-consciously, by the door, until, after several minutes someone emerged and I was able to enter.
            I sat unsuccessfully on the seat for a while, wondering why I always seemed to be constipated on journeys, though seldom at other times. I then, rather half-heartedly washed myself.  The inside of my mouth felt as if it was stuffed with blotting paper and I was sure that my breath smelt, but my toothbrush was in the bag under my seat, and I knew that if I left the toilet to get it, someone else would take my place there, so I contented myself with running a soapy finger across my gums and teeth, and then gargling with lukewarm water.  The net result of that was that my mouth now tasted of soap; but that was an improvement on the brown cardboard taste that I had been suffering before that exercise: and I hoped that my breath no longer smelt so badly.  It almost certainly did.  I made my way back to my seat and saw that Hilde was just waking up.
            By now it was quite light and fairly soon breakfast was served.  We had hardly finished eating when the "No smoking - Fasten seat belts" sign was flashed on, and we heard Captain Fernandez telling us that we were beginning our descent to Lusaka. Soon, through a window, I could see Africa again: trees, brownish vegetation (This was the middle of the dry season), some straight roads, and some scattered buildings.  We touched down at 7.55 a.m.
            It was quite cold when we emerged onto the tarmac and  I was glad that I was wearing my jacket.  The terminal building looked relatively new, but rather shabby, though, in front of it some more construction had begun, and once we got inside we saw that most of the customs hall was also in the hands of the builders.  There was the usual queuing that seems to be a feature of so much air travel today, and, after getting into the wrong queue and discovering our mistake shortly before we reached the desk, we found ourselves in the right one; passed through passport inspection, though as transit passengers I was surprised that that was necessary, and were then directed upstairs to the transit lounge where we were to spend the next few hours.
            The terminal, though new, seemed to be sinking into a state of almost terminal decay.  The transit lounge was a long oblong room, with a bar and snack-bar at one end, a duty free shop at right-angles at the other end, and a sign indicating the whereabouts of the ladies' and gentlemen's toilets. On the side opposite the duty-free shop were huge windows looking out onto the airfield. These were clearly intended to be attractive features of the lounge, but the effect was somewhat spoilt by the fact that in the few years of the building's existence much of the glass had become covered by a thick film of oil, so that one looked out on the airfield through mud-coloured windows.
            Apart from in the dining area, where conventional restaurant tables  and chairs were provided, the seating was in the form of low, plastic covered easy chairs: of the same design as those that I remembered in the fifth form common room of the secondary modern school in which I used to teach.  They were in much the same state of repair, as well.  On at least every third chair either the seat or the back had a large slash from which the stuffing was emerging. The men's toilet, I discovered, had no soap, no towels, and no hot water.  I had last used Lusaka Airport, briefly, in 1956: and though, at that time, the present terminal building had not been constructed, I have no memory of the buildings that were there then, as being in such a shoddy state.
            We sat, talked a little, and read a little.  I had finished Granta and had started 'The Old Devils' by Kingley Amis; but after a while we got up and wandered over to the duty free shop, where we purchased a bottle of whisky as a present for the brothers at Likuni. As at Frankfurt, I was now becoming apprehensive about boarding cards.  Unlike Frankfurt, there were no long corridors here for me to pace along looking for the appropriate desk.  In fact, there was almost nowhere else to go apart from the transit lounge.  Hilde told me not to keep fussing: so I reluctantly sat down and continued worrying silently.  At around twelve there was an announcement that a meal would be served for all transit passengers, so we moved over to the tables where we were served a reasonable meal, and where I drank a glass of Zambian beer: a local brew that I suspect did not exist in the old days, but which was a lot better than the Rhodesian Lion or Castle beer which seemed to be the only beers available in the 60s.
            At the table with us sat two white Namibian girls.  At first we thought that they were German for they had been speaking in that language, and one of them, very blond, looked typically German.  Of course, Namibia had been a German colony before the First World War, and a very large proportion of the white population today, are descendants of German settlers.  These girls were returning to newly independent Namibia, after living in Germany for a year or so.  I think they were a little apprehensive about what they might find when they got home.
            At last, after lunch, came the announcement that we could collect our boarding passes.  Once again there were no seat numbers, and it would be a case of first come first served.  At about 1.20 we were told to board our plane, though first, as in Frankfurt, we had to identify our luggage.  The plane, a Zambian airways twin-engined Handley Page turboprop, was considerably smaller than the Lufthansa Airbus or the Mozambican Douglas, but quite comfortable all the same.  There was some delay before we took off because there appeared to be one more passenger than there were seats, but the dilemma was solved by the Captain taking a little five year old passenger into the control cabin to sit between him and the first officer.  The little boy seemed overjoyed, and he should have a permanent record of the experience for one of the stewardesses took a photograph of him sitting there.
            We took off at 2.35, and had a very comfortable flight to Lilongwe.  Lusaka Airport may look rather run down, but one can't complain about their national airline.  Zambia Airways seems quite efficient, even if they don't allocate special seats to their passengers.
            We landed an hour later at Lilongwe: but not at the landing field  from which we had begun our journey home twenty-three years before.  That airfield has been in army use for some time, chiefly, we were told, for the training of helicopter pilots, though last year it was open to the public when thousands crowded to it to great the Pope on his visit to Malawi. Today, airliners arrive at the new  Kamuza International Airport with  its long concrete runways (in the old airport they were of grass), and its spanking new buildings.
            Once inside the terminal, we had to complete the inevitable forms - Purpose of visit, nationality, where we were staying, permanent address, currency, etc.- but they did not take too long.  We presented our passports to a lady immigration officer, and she was just examining them, when we were accosted by a police sergeant, who asked if we were Mr and Mrs Baker, and on being told that we were, said that there was a father waiting for us outside. This information seemed to have a positive effect on the immigration officer, for without examining them any further, she stamped our passports, and passed us through to customs, who, perhaps because we were still accompanied by the police sergeant, didn't question us or even glance at our luggage.
            There, beyond the barrier, stood Father Chibwinja, the priest who had joined us in matrimony, twenty five years before, and one of the French-Canadian Marist Brothers, Brother Adrian, the last headmaster of Mtendere, our old secondary school.  I think Hilde was almost in tears. Once we were through the barrier, she rushed up to them and embraced each in turn.  I think in the next three weeks she was to kiss more male members of religious orders than is normal for married ladies, or for unmarried ones for that matter. I felt pretty emotional too.  Father Chibwinja had hardly changed.  He looked incredibly young, yet I knew that, like myself, he was in his early sixties.  For that matter Brother Adrian looked quite young, as did all the brothers and priests we were to meet during our visit, whether Malawian or expatriate.  Perhaps it has something to do with the pace of life in Malawi.  It has certainly nothing to do with living an easy life, for during term time they  work extremely hard.
            Once out of the terminal building, we said goodbye to Father Chibwinja, who was returning to his parish, and boarded Brother Adrian's car for the drive to Likuni Boys' Secondary School where we were to spend our first night in Malawi.  Within a few minutes of our starting the journey, it became clear to us both that Malawi had developed considerably since independence. 
            Twenty six years ago I had entered Malawi, as on this occasion, by way of Zambia. I had spent an afternoon in Ndola, in the Zambian Copper belt, followed by a night in Lusaka as the guest of the Jesuits, and the following day  had flown to Malawi by an Air Malawi DC3 (The civilian version of that old workhorse of the Allied air forces during World War II, the Douglas Dakota). When I landed at the old Lilongwe Airport with its solitary tin shed terminal building and had been driven from there into Lilongwe along a decrepit dirt road, it had been quite obvious then that Zambia was at a far greater stage of development than Malawi.
            On this occasion having also entered by way of Zambia, my impression was totally different.  Everything I could see, the gleaming new airport, and the efficient way that the staff at the terminal handled the incoming passengers, and the splendid tarmac road leading to the capital, Lilongwe, told of a country that was on the move.  We both concluded that now, Malawi was at a far greater stage of development than Zambia. In retrospect, that conclusion may seem rather unfair to Zambia: for our only experience of that country had been the four hours that we spent at Lusaka Airport. But the state of that airport, the main entrance point for the country, did not suggest that Zambia had prospered greatly during the intervening quarter century.
            At intervals, along the road between the airport and Lilongwe, were placed rows of flagpoles, flying the Malawi national flag.  These had been erected a few months before to celebrate 25 years of independence, and were still in position, both here, and along other main roads in the country.   I was surprised to see that they were simply green, red, black tricolours, for the Malawi flag that I remembered had contained a red sun rising from the red band, superimposed over the black.  I asked why the flag had  changed, and Brother Adrian said that it had not, but that the version with the sun could only be used by people at the highest level of the Malawi Congress Party, other people and organisations were only allowed to use the flag without the sun.
            Although it was rather out of our way, Brother Adrian drove us through the new capital: but it was a very different city from the one that we remembered. Lilongwe, though eighty kilometres, from Mtendere had been the place where we did our Saturday shopping in the old days, so we thought we knew it quite well.  In 1965, it had had a population of about 17,000, roughly equal to that of Sevenoaks, though it had covered a much greater area, for in Malawi towns, the buildings are never packed so closely together as they are in land-hungry Britain. It had been a rather sleepy place, with the main street, roughly tarmac, with a deep ditch on each side, and, beyond the ditch the principle buildings beginning with Kandodo's supermarket, where, after you had purchased your weekly shopping, someone would carry it for you to your car.  Then came Mandala's, the rival store to Kandodo's. Mandala was the name given by Africans to  the African Lakes Corporation, which was probably the oldest company in Central Africa.  It had been founded by philanthropic Scottish businessmen in response to Dr Livingstone's appeal for commercial enterprises.  Unlike Kandodo's, Mandala's  was not a self-service store, but instead had something of the atmosphere of a good 1930s provision store in Britain, with a very attentive staff, as was brought home to us when  a a glass of water and a chair were personally brought to Hilde by the Malawian manager, when she  felt faint a couple of months before the birth of our son.
            I think Barclays Bank, D.C.O., was the next establishment, and, on the other side of the road, its rival, the Standard Bank. Apart from the National Bank in Blantyre, they were the only two banking companies in Malawi in those days.  Barclays was then staffed by a mixture of expatriates and Malawians.  The expatriates tended to be in the senior positions, as was the case then in most of the bureaucratic organisations in the country, though much of commerce was in the control of Asians.  Perhaps I am being unfair, but I was not very impressed with the standard of efficiency of the expatriates. I had the feeling that many of them would not have achieved such high positions at home.  The Malawians, on the other hand, certainly those in Barclays Bank, seemed quite efficient.
            There were also some Indian stores, from one of which I had purchased my furniture, and a portable radiogram, which later became a nest of cockroaches; and the Lilongwe Hotel, where we stayed once or twice, and where we would be greeted by the Head Waiter with the words: “Halloo sir. Hallo Madam.  How is Dedza?" We never did get round to telling him that we didn't actually live in Dedza, though, admittedly, Mtendere did get its letters from the Dedza post office.
            There were other roads in the Lilongwe of 1965, in one, at right angles to the main road, was the post office, the Times Bookshop, and an ice-cream parlour.  There was also, somewhere, a European butcher's shop, which we very occasionally patronised during the school holidays.  During term time we would usually buy our meat from the market at Tete, about two kilometres from our school.  Each week, a cow or a bull would be butchered under the supervision of a veterinary inspector, and Suwedi, our cook, would buy meat at one shilling a pound.  That sounds a remarkable bargain, but it wasn't really, for purchasers were not permitted to choose their cuts.  If you wanted two pounds of meat, you simply got the next two pounds, and if that was largely bone or gristle, then hard luck.  The other shop that I remember was the second bookshop, or, so far as we were concerned, the first.  It was considerably smaller than the Time's bookshop, and unlike it, did not sell magazines or newspapers, but it  had a much better selection of paperbacks, which was why we preferred it.  It was  owned by a prominent family  of Indians, and managed by one of their teen-aged sons: a pleasant lad, who spoke impeccable English, and who we learnt would much rather have been at university in England than managing that shop for his family.
            Apart from shopping, the other reason for going to Lilongwe had been to visit the cinema, which occupied part of the town hall.  Before our son was born, we would go perhaps every six weeks or so, driving back along the dirt roads, which in the rainy season could be very slippery and in the dry season very corrugated, at nearly midnight, after the film show had ended.  We also visited the cinema on a couple of occasions to attend concerts: once to a concert in aid of a leprosoriam, when some of the performers were lepers, and, on another occasion to a piano recital by a visiting American concert pianist which had been sponsored by the U.S. Information Services.  The artiste seemed a little surprised that she was expected to perform on an upright piano, but at that time there were no grand pianos to be found in the Central Region of Malawi.
            Lilongwe today has grown to be a city of about a quarter of a million people, though most of that growth is in the new Capital City area.  The part of the town that we used to know has not changed quite so drastically, though there have been quite a few new buildings. Kandodo's is now the P.T.C. Supermarket (P.T.C. standing for People's Trading Company), there is no longer a Mandala's store, and the buildings that housed Barclays Bank and the Standard Bank now contain the Commercial Bank of Malawi and the National Bank respectively. Between the ditch and the stores are the pitches of many craft sellers.  A quarter of a century ago, there was usually just one, and he would be selling imported objects, as, at that time there seemed to be almost no native Malawi craft work.  The situation is very different today, with Malawi producing some very fine craft work, in particular wood carvings, baskets and mats.  Near the end of the commercial area The Lilongwe Hotel is still to be found, but with the addition of a swimming pool and several extensions, it has gone considerably upmarket.
            The new part of the city, however, does not look all that much like a town as yet.  It has more the appearance of a wooded park, with buildings scattered along the roads with intervals of several hundred metres between each one.  Almost all the buildings are very modern, and many of them, such as the Capital Hotel, and several of the Ministries, are very attractive.  But it cannot yet be a particularly easy place in which to work as everything is so scattered, and anyone without a car, or reasonable access to public transport must find working there almost impossible.  However, the public transport system does seem to have improved since our day.  There were far more buses than we remembered, and there were even double deck buses, looking just like the London ones, though we were told that they were imported from South Africa.
            After he had shown us something of the city, Brother Adrian took the Likuni Road, which had also been tarmaced  since our day and was of very good quality.  It led past the golf course, past  areas of small, but soundly built, brick houses, and past some villages of traditional thatched roofed huts. There were also some  native markets, and a number of commercial or government establishments, including a branch of the Malawi Dairy, a completely new enterprise which we were told was managed by one of our former pupils. 
            However, there was something of the Malawi we remembered along this road, in that, when passing inhabited areas, Brother Adrian had to watch out carefully in case goats, cattle, chickens or dogs came on to the road.  The goats or cattle were not too much of a problem.  They were usually in the charge of small boys, who on seeing the car, would drive them back to the side of the road: and, even if they were unattended, a blast or two on the horn would make them turn back to the side.  Chickens or dogs were another matter.  The chickens would either carry on walking when a horn was sounded, or simply stand still in the centre of the road.  The dogs were totally unpredictable.  Sometimes they would retreat when they heard the horn, but as likely as not, they would charge towards the car.  In the old days, I had to have a new wing to my Renault 4, when a suicidal hound rushed at it.  Oddly enough, he didn't succeed in his suicide attempt, but limped away howling.  I did a little howling myself when I saw the repair bill.  On this occasion Brother Adrian negotiated the road all the 8 kilometres to Likuni without damage either to his car or to any canine or fowl.
            Likuni  still looked pretty much as we remembered it.  The car turned off the good main road onto the sort of rough track that was so familiar to us from the old days, drove past what had been the cathedral, now demoted to a parish church since the Lilongwe Diocese had decided, quite sensibly, that the cathedral should be in the town of that name, and then took  a right turn , through gates in a brick wall, into the grounds of Likuni Secondary School. 
            We had known the school quite well in the old days, for we were very friendly with many of the lay staff, one of whom had been godfather to our first son who was born in the Likuni hospital. The brothers of the school we had not known quite so well, apart from Brother Gerard, the headmaster, who seemed to be a compulsive builder, for even in the three years that we had known the place, the number of buildings on the site had increased by at least a third.  Our son's godfather, who had lived in a perfectly adequate house, the twin of the one that we occupied in Mtendere, had suddenly been transferred to a new house that had been built for him, and that Brother Gerard presumably thought to be more in keeping with the status of a Key Post Teacher.  It was an improvement on the other house certainly, particularly as it boasted a fire place, which was a useful adjunct for the colder nights of the dry season.
            Brother Gerard was, and is, a delightful man; small, slightly portly, and something of a character.  I had been told by my headmaster how, on one occasion when an inspector was visiting the school, Brother Gerard had impressed on him his need for secretarial help, as his day was full of time-consuming interruptions.  He had then taken the inspector into a classroom where he proceeded to take an English class.  About five minutes into the lesson, the door opened and a boy entered and told Brother Gerard that he was wanted urgently outside.
            He turned to the inspector and said: "That's the sort of thing that I was complaining about.  Would you mind taking over the class while I sort this matter out?"
            Of course the inspector had to agree, so the headmaster leaving him to cope as best he could, made his way to his office, where there was no urgent matter to deal with, and sat and smoked a cigarette or two until the lesson period was nearly over, before returning to relieve the inspector.
            Brother Gerard was still there to great us when we arrived.  He had not been headmaster for the whole of the intervening period. Indeed he had spent some time in Canada reading for a master's degree in New Brunswick, but now he was back again as headmaster, seeming, like Brother Adrian and Father Chibwinja, hardly to have aged over the years.  With him were some other brothers who we had not known previously, but all greeted us very warmly, and we were taken at once into their sitting room, and given drinks. Hilde had a gin and tonic made from the excellent Malawi Gin, and I had a glass of the, just as excellent, Malawi brewed Carlsberg lager.
            We were asked what our plans were.  In fact we didn't have any definite ones, so Brother Adrian suggested that we might care to accompany him to Lake Malawi, for a few days relaxation at their lake shore house.  That seemed a very good idea, so we agreed to set off with him on the following day.
            Next we were shown our rooms. If this was to be our second honeymoon, we were going to have a very unromantic first night, for we were to sleep in separate rooms. We didn't mind too much, as we were both rather tired.  Each room had a portable electric fire, and Brother Adrian suggested that we might like to switch them on, for the weather that day had been cold for Africa, and the sky  completely overcast.  But we didn't feel that it was quite cold enough for a fire, though it was certainly cooler than the England we had left on the previous day.
            That evening, we had the first of many meals as the guests of the Brothers.  The conversation was all about the past.  We learnt that one of our former Malawian colleagues was now a business man and would be offering us hospitality in Blantyre: and that another one, Jack Mapanje, had gone on to be a famous Malawi poet and Professor of English Literature, but was now a political prisoner.  That last item of news, did rather dampen my spirits.  Soon after that we retired to bed, to sleep  under mosquito nets for the first time in nearly a quarter of a century.           
     I slept very well that night, and awoke at around seven to the sound of singing, a children's choir was practising in front of the church, a short distance from the window of my room.  The dining room was empty when Hilde and I arrived for breakfast, most of the brothers had already eaten, but their cook emerged and produced tea at once, and sausages and eggs within a few minutes.  As we were eating, Brother Adrian entered, and suggested that we might like to go with him to Lilongwe in the morning, and then, after lunch, journey to the Lake.
            As we drove into Lilongwe, we passed a bus on its side, with a crowd of people standing around it.  At once it brought back memories, for one of the persistent features of the old Malawi that we had known, was the sight of vehicles overturned on the road side.  On the dirt roads of those days, at least one in four of the drivers we knew had tales to tell of cars overturned.  I  had managed to avoid such a fate myself; though once on a corrugated dirt road in Zambia in my little Renault 4, I had skidded almost into a ditch, out of that danger, across the road and almost into the  ditch on the other side, then across to the middle of the road again, where I managed to recover control and proceed on my way.  However, only once before did we see a bus on its side, at Ntcheu in the Ngoni Highlands.  Shortly after passing the accident we stopped to ask a passer-by for directions.  He looked at us distractedly, and said, in halting English. "Please, I do not know.  My son has died on that bus." He walked away from us.
            We heard tales of other buses overturned, particularly on the mountain roads of the Northern Region.  Our students used to say that the drivers were often drunk, but that may not have been true.  The mountain roads were bad enough to tax the skill of even the most sober driver.  I thought the overturned bus in Lilongwe would be only the first of several that we might see on this visit; but I was wrong.  In fact we did not see any more overturned vehicles this time.  Of course, many of the roads were much better than in the old days, and perhaps the liqueur was not so dangerous.
            Once in Lilongwe, our first task was to hire a car: not for that day, but for the following Monday.  I held a Hertz credit card, but I saw no reason why I should pay Hertz prices (even though my card guarantees me a 10% discount).  Instead I went to one of the car hire companies which had advertised in the publicity material we had received from the Malawi High Commission in London.  Brother Adrian accompanied us, and suggested, that as there were two car hire firms in the one road, we should compare prices, which we did, and turned to the one that appeared a little cheaper, even though it was not the one that we had seen advertised.  The premises were in an enclosed yard, guarded, like many other Malawian business establishments by a uniformed security guard, who, at first I mistook for a policeman.
            The yard was filled with lorries, vans and cars, in various states of repair.  Clearly car hire was not the only business of the company.  In the office, the manager turned out to be a former pupil of Brother Adrian and was very friendly.  In the course of the next few days, we were constantly bumping into former pupils, either of Brother Adrian, or of the other Marist brothers, they were always friendly, and always very helpful: though, as we were to discover in this case, their friendliness and helpfulness did not necessarily guarantee exemplary service. 
            We explained that we would want a car from Monday for about fourteen days, and were shown a Mazda that looked to be in very good condition, and told that we could have that  car, or a car like it on Monday.  We were also told that it would be cheaper if we paid cash, which we agreed to do, even though I had intended to use a credit card.  We filled in all the appropriate forms, shook hands more than once with Brother Adrian's ex-pupil, and also with his assistant:  hand shaking seems a very popular pastime in Malawi: and then we left.
            Our next task was to buy a road map of Malawi.  Back home in England we had an ancient South African AA Road Atlas of South and Central Africa, but we hadn't bothered to bring it with us, for we were sure that it would be hopelessly out of date.  Brother Adrian took us first to the Times Book Shop,  where we were introduced to, and had a pleasant conversation with another of his ex-students who was managing the place, but where  there were no road maps to be had.  Next we went to the official government book store, managed by another ex-student of Brother Adrian.  Once again there were no maps.  A visit to a travel agents enabled us to pick up a tourist brochure with a small map of Malawi showing some of the roads, but, as it was not as comprehensive as the map on another tourist brochure that we had back in Likuni, we didn't bother to take it.  I felt rather desperate by this time.  We intended to do rather a lot of driving over the next two weeks, but it was beginning to appear that all that driving would have to be done without the aid of a map.
            Fortunately, Brother Adrian did not need a map for our trip to the Lake that afternoon, for he knew the way perfectly well.  After lunch we left.  Once we had passed through Lilongwe, and were on the road to Salima, things began to look rather more familiar.  The road, though tarmaced was nothing like as good as the road from the airport to Lilongwe, or the road from Lilongwe to Likuni.  On several stretches it consisted of a single strip of tarmac wide enough for one vehicle only, so that if two were approaching the protocol was for each vehicle to drive with one set of wheels on the tarmac, and the other on the dirt, in order that both could pass.  Not every driver observed the protocol.  Often the approaching vehicle would resolutely hug the centre of the tarmac until, and sometimes beyond, the last possible moment, so that Brother Adrian would sometimes be forced to drive with all four wheels on the dirt.
            On other stretches of the road, which were tarmaced for the whole width, there were numerous pot holes, some of them, surprisingly deep. Altogether the Salima road was not one on which it was safe to lose concentration.  In no way could Brother Adrian be said to have lost any concentration: yet his alertness did not prevent one nasty mishap.  We had just passed a village, when suddenly a dog rushed out of the bush, and ran straight in front of the car.  Brother Adrian braked at once, but it was too late.  The dog was dead, and the bumper was severely bent, and one of the parking lights detached from its mounting. 
            We stopped the car, and Brother Adrian got out to examine the damage.  It was not so severe as to prevent us from continuing our journey, but it would clearly cost quite a number of Kwachas to repair.  As we looked sorrowfully at the dead dog and the damaged car, a man rode up on a bicycle, stopped, looked at the dog with some interest,  appeared to think for a moment, then dismounted, and walking over to Brother Adrian said: "That is my dog.  You have killed it."
            Poor Brother Adrian looked rather distressed, but did not reply.  The man may have been the owner of the dog, but it seemed somewhat unlikely.  The dog had certainly not been anywhere near him when it emerged from the bush, and I rather thought that the man had simply seen an opportunity to make a little easy money.
            The man spoke again: "I loved my dog.  You have killed it. Give me money for my dog."
            Brother Adrian looked even more distressed.  Without a word he got back in the car and I did the same.  As we drove off I noticed that the man had remounted his bicycle and was resuming his journey.
            This dog incident did not have the effect of causing Brother Adrian to reduce his speed to any extent.  He is a good, kindly, gentle person: a gentleman in the literal sense of the word, but sitting beside him in the car, I found that the speed that we were travelling somewhat disturbing.  However, I am always disturbed when I'm sitting beside a driver; but as, almost everyone who sits beside me when I am at the wheel seems to think that I am driving too fast; it may simply be that the person in the passenger seat invariably has that feeling.  Though then again, it may be that both Brother Adrian and I do drive too fast.
            At various points along the road, areas of the bush were on fire, a phenomenon we remembered well from the old days, when sometimes the fires were so close to the road that one wondered whether the blaze would reach the car as one drove past.  Fortunately that never happened to us, though there were times when the smoke was so dense that monetarily it could almost have been a London 'pea soup' fog that we were driving through.
            We had been told that the fires were due to the slash and burn style of land clearing in preparation for the new crop, and we assumed that that was the reason for the bush fires that we were seeing at this time.  However, Brother Adrian told us that that was not the case.  He said that the fires were caused by boys who were hunting mice, which when cooked were regarded as a gastronomic delicacy. 
            The boys would first seek the holes that indicated that there were mice nests below the ground.  They would then light a semicircle of fires around the holes, which, presumably by causing the temperature within the nests to rise, would make the atmosphere so uncomfortable, that the mice would have to emerge from the holes, and run through the gap in the fire straight into the nets of the boys: who would then kill and roast them, impale them on sticks, and attempt to sell them to passers by.  One distressing by-product of this method of mice hunting was that frequently the bush fires got out of hand, and  large areas of the bush, often including  good cultivated land, would be devastated.
            Even as he spoke, we noticed several young mice salesmen at the  roadside, with  sticks of roasted mice held up for our inspection.  We did not stop to purchase any; though no doubt they would have been quite enjoyable: possibly rather similar to the taste of  rabbit.
            We talked a lot during the drive.  We asked Brother Adrian  about the important changes  since independence.  Certainly, so far as we could observe, the country did look more prosperous.  There now seemed to be a large African middle class, filling the professional and business posts that in our time were filled by expatriates or Asians.  We had been told that many of the roads, though not the one on which we were now driving, were much better, there was twenty-four hour electricity and water in Likuni, and, we understood in all the urban areas and much of the rural parts of the country. 
            In our day, where there was electricity outside the three largest towns, it had been supplied by private generators.  At our old school at Mtendere, cooking had been by wood stove.  The electricity generator was only switched on at six o'clock each evening by Brother Leo, the superior (A wonderful old man, and, but for his white cassock, looking as I imagined a grizzled old French-Canadian lumberjack would look), and then turned off again at nine.  At party after party, Brother Leo would be an honoured guest: not simply for the pleasure of his company, but rather in the hope that he would stay well beyond 9 p.m., and with his presence the lights would stay on.  It was always a vain hope though.  Punctually at 8.55 p.m., Brother Leo would look at his watch, finish his drink, rise from his chair, turn to his host and say:  "Thank you for a very pleasant evening, but I'm afraid I must say good night to you all, it is my  bedtime.“ Off he would go; and five minutes later all the electric lights would go out: though  the party would continue for several more hours, illuminated, rather more romantically, by oil lamps and candles.
            Things today did seem to be better for many people in Malawi: but it was not clear that they were materially better for everyone. Brother Adrian did not know whether the people in the villages, who made up the bulk of the population, were better off or worse off than in the nineteen-sixties.  We certainly saw more Malawians driving private cars than we remembered; which was a sign of the  growing middle class: but we saw very few bicycles.  In our day  there had been thousands of cycles on the roads, some with two, three and once, even four people on board. On  that occasion we saw a cycle ridden by a man, with his son balanced on the crossbar, and his wife sitting behind him with the baby on her back.  Often when we returned from Lilongwe after a Saturday morning's shopping, for twenty miles from the town the road had been packed with cyclists making their way to Lilongwe market: some with passengers, others with goods for sale, in particular with the wicker baskets that were such a feature of that region.  Some cycles carried so many baskets for sale that they formed huge haloes around and above the cyclist, so that there was no way that he could see any vehicle approaching him from the rear.  The bicycle then was the Model T Ford of Malawi: the first large item that anyone would want to buy as soon as he or she had a little to spend above the basic necessities.  Today, there were almost no bicycles to be seen.  At 700 kwachas each (about £140), they were beyond the reach of most villagers.
            We asked about our old school.  For some years it had being doing rather well, with the reputation of being one of the finest schools in the country: but two years ago it was badly affected by a government order that teachers should only work in their home regions.  Mtendere was in the Central region, but many of its Malawian staff were from the Northern or the Southern Region.  When the order came down from the Ministry of Education, no time was given to prepare for the change over.  One day, lorries arrived at the school, and the departing teachers were ordered to board them and leave. As there was no machinery for appeal against the decision they had to go, and, as they included some of the best teachers on the staff, it took the school very many months to recover from that blow; though we were told that things were more or less back to normal now. 
            Of course, Mtendere was not the only school affected in this way.  Throughout the country the same game of musical chairs was set in motion, with deplorable results.  No one seemed to know the reason for the extraordinary law, though it was suggested that it was to isolate possible dissidents in their own region. Although no official cancellation of the order had ever been made, it seemed that now teachers  were being allowed to work outside their home regions.
            Certainly Mtendere had recovered enough to hold celebrations last year for the twenty-fifth anniversary of its foundation, when ex-students returned from all over the country to what Brother Adrian had called "Mother Mtendere" (The name in Chichewa means "Peace").  It had been an emotional get together, and those present had decided to form an ex-students association, which was now in being, and already in the business of raising funds for improvements to the school.
            About twenty minutes after the demise of the dog, we found ourselves coming in to Salima, where we would turn South along a road skirting the Lake.  Salima is an important district centre, containing a hospital, several churches and a mosque, and numerous schools including a technical training establishment.  It looked pretty much the same as we remembered it; like many Malawi townships, having buildings a long way apart, so that one spent much more time driving through the town than would have been the case with a centre of similar population in Britain.  I had always thought of it as being on the Lake, and in the past we had spent several weekends, and part of our honeymoon at lake shore hotels within the Salima area.  Actually, although the hotels are all within Salima District, they are at least five miles from the township, as is the Lake itself.  I first visited the Lake after I had been in the country about two months.  I had been attending a teachers' conference in Blantyre, and at its conclusion I flew to the Lake for a three day break.  That flight was one of the most interesting I have ever experienced.  The plane, of Air Malawi, was a single engined Canadian De Havilland Beaver.  I was one of three passengers sitting behind the pilot, the fourth passenger sat in the co-pilots seat.  It was flying as it really ought to be.  We could see so much, and the pilot kept up a running commentary on interesting points about the terrain over which we flew.  Before we came in to land, we first circled around a hill, below its peak, which I found a little frightening. 
            At the end of my three day break, I realised that I had no way of leaving the place.  I didn't then have a car and no one was leaving on the same day from whom I could cadge a lift.  The only way I could leave was to fly out, for the hotel did provide a car to the landing strip for those who had purchased flight tickets: so that I did.  A station wagon took me to the  Salima landing strip, where the only building was a small brick shed, slightly larger than a lean-to toilet, which did duty as ticket office, and, perhaps, as control tower.  Its only piece of equipment being a transmitter  to communicate with incoming aircraft.  After a wait of nearly an hour my plane arrived; a Dakota of Air Malawi, which I boarded for the less than 100 mile flight to Lilongwe from where I hoped to cadge a lift to Mtendere.  Happily I did manage that.
            After about ten minutes of driving through 'urban' Salima, we turned right onto the road skirting the Lake, though it would be some time before we could actually see the Lake.   After a while we passed a rather impressive looking entrance guarded by soldiers.  This, we were told, was the Malawi military college, and some miles further along the road, a lake shore hotel had been converted into a rest centre for army officers. 
            We found that item  of news rather depressing, for the hotel, called the Lake Nyasa Hotel in our day, though subsequently renamed the Fish Eagle Hotel, was where we had spent the first five happy days of our honeymoon.  We would have loved to have gone there again: though even if it had not become a rest home for officers, it could not have been the same.  The irascible Rhodesian proprietor with a Yorkshire accent would have been long gone, as would have been the shy servant who seemed terrified of bringing us our morning tea, once he had learnt that we were on our honeymoon.  He did duty as wine waiter at dinner, and if we asked for the wine list, he would emerge clutching four or five different bottles, as there was no printed list.  We would point to the appropriate bottle, he would then, with considerable difficulty, place all the bottles on an adjoining table, before uncorking  the chosen one.  Like all the hotel servants of those days, he wore a fez at all times: not, I imagine, because he wanted to, but because most whites  expected African servants to wear fezes.  It always struck me as a typical piece of arrogant European condescension: this insistence that African employees dress up in funny clothes: particularly as the fez was not native to that part of Africa, and certainly not amongst non-Moslems.
            Not long after passing the military college, we arrived at our destination; the Brothers' lake shore house.  We had been to the site once before, when we visited our headmaster there when we had been spending a few days at the Lake Nyasa Hotel.  Then it had been a long thatched roofed building in native style, with a wide conde (veranda) along the front.  It had looked very romantic, though inevitably it was rather bug ridden.  Between it and the lake-shore was a huge baobab tree.  Now, neither the tree nor the old house remained.  The tree, incredibly, had been uprooted during a storm, and had fallen into the lake.  The house too had been uprooted, but intentionally by the brothers, and replaced by a much more utilitarian building; a rectangular structure with a corrugated roof.  It could never have happened in England.  Some busybody would have slapped a preservation order on that splendid old thatched roof building and that would have been that.  However, I had to admit that the new house was much more practical and comfortable, and though, there were some mosquitoes around, there seemed to be no cockroaches or any of the other noxious creepy-crawlies that had inhabited the old house.
            In front of the house was an area laid out for croquet, and then some fencing with a gate through which a path descended to the beach.  There was a notice instructing that the gate be kept closed, and another, rather ominous notice, warning everyone to beware of  hippopotami.  Apparently those creatures sometimes came out onto the beach at night, and were even seen in the water during the day.  They could be quite dangerous if disturbed, or even if not disturbed, which was one of the reasons for the notice asking that the gate be kept shut. Between the house and the road was a separate dinning room and kitchen, and beyond that the house of the resident cook and his family: and to one side of the main house was another small house, a rondaval, which at present was occupied by a Swiss missionary priest.
            We were delighted to find that our bedroom had a double bed, and after we had unpacked our things, Hilde changed into her costume and went for a swim.  I was rather worried by the notice about the Hippos, and by what Brother Adrian had said about what could happen if they were disturbed, and I tried to dissuade her, particularly as it was by now late afternoon, and approaching the time when they were said to emerge onto the beach, but she was adamant, so I had to content myself with standing on a rock and watching her while looking out for the heads of any hippos in the vicinity: though I had no plan for what to do if I saw one.  Of course there were none, but after a fairly short while, she came out, and we returned to the house.
            Soon after that, we had supper, good split pea soup to start, followed by chambo, the excellent lake fish that we had grown to love in the old days.  Then, back in the sitting room, we sat and drank and talked until bedtime at around 9.30.  The bed was remarkably comfortable, though it took us an inordinate length of time to get into it, for we had forgotten quite how to put in place a double mosquito-net.
            We both enjoyed our time at the Lake, where Hildegard did a lot of sketching, until, leaving her sketch pad on the beach whilst we were swimming, it was missing when we returned to it; we thought someone must have stolen it.
            A few days later when we returned to Likuni, we collected the car that we were renting and drove to Farther Chibwinja’s parish which was some miles to the west of Lilongwe near the main road to Zambia.  There we were his guests for a short while  However, on that journey we discovered that the hired car had lots wrong with it,  and would probably break down if we attempted longer journeys.  We got it back to Lilongwe, returned it to the hire company, and hired a much better car from Hertz, which we used for the rest of our stay in Malawi.
            We revisited Mtendere where we were welcomed by the Brothers, though we did not see any of the Peace Corps and British VSO teachers, as it was the middle of the school holiday. We drove to the Juniorate where we received a similar very warm welcome by the brothers there.
            From Mtendere, we drove on to Blantyre where we stayed at the newest hotel, which had been under construction when we were first teaching in Malawi.
            We had a very comfortable room several floors up, so even without mosquito nets there was no danger from mosquitoes that do not usually fly so high.
            We obtained a table next to the pianist for supper, and as he played I found myself singing to the familiar tunes.  When he had finished playing, he congratulated me on my singing, which pleased me, though he was probably just being polite.
            The supper was excellent.
            Whilst we were in Blantyre, we were visited by a Blantyre City Council official who we had met a few months previously when he was in England as the guest of Mike Sanders, another of our friends who had visited Malawi recently for a twinning ceremony between Blantyre and Crawley where he was chief executive.
            We also visited the Malawi Museum, which was situated on the highway between Blantye and Limbe.  I found it rather disappointing with little in its exhibits to inspire me with enthusiasm for Malawian history and prehistory.
            One evening we were the guests to supper of Joe Msinga, who had been our colleague when we had taught in Mtendere, but who was now a business man, and apparently a fairly successful one.  He and his wife gave us an excellent meal that was entirely European, with no items of African cuisine, which I found quite pleasing, as I had no wish to eat Msima, the traditional maize porridge that was a major feature of Malawian diet.
            It was quite late when we returned to our car to drive back to the hotel, and with no street lights in the vicinity of Joe’s house, we could have been out in the bush rather than in a suburb of Malawi’s largest city.
            -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
            I felt that it was time that we paid a visit to Ruby in Australia; just the two of us, for all three children were now away at university.
            It was now 1992, and as our children had grown up, Hildegard and I booked our flights; flew to Perth by way of Singapore, and spent just over six weeks seeing Ruby and her sons in Perth and Sydney, and then continuing round the world.  I wrote a detailed account of our journey later on, calling it  ROUND THE WORLD IN FORTY-SIX DAYS which I have reproduced here.
Day 1 .Wednesday 20th May, 1992.
Tunbridge Wells to Mid-air over Asia.
It was a lovely day, and as our taxi to the airport was not due until the late afternoon, we could spend it as we wished.  When the packing was done, we drove to La Galouch on the Common and had a really splendid pub lunch, a beautifully cooked chicken for me.  After that we went down to the Pantiles and browsed in the shops in the Corn Exchange.  At one shop we purchased a picture of Oast Houses as a present for Gerry Dowsky, our friend in Oregon.  We then went home and waited for the taxi.
            It arrived at 5.30.  The driver seemed to be something of a speed merchant, and none too careful: I began to wonder whether we would make it as far as Heathrow; but he got us there by 7 p.m., in very good time for our flight.  On the previous day I had telephoned the agency, Bridge the World, and told them that we had no wish to go to Bangkok as there were riots in that city and people being killed.  The company was extraordinarily efficient; within two hours they had cancelled our Bangkok hotel reservation, and altered our tickets so that we would be landing in Singapore instead, and given us new hotel reservations in that city. 
            I had to pick up the new tickets at the QANTAS desk at Heathrow.  Naturally, I was rather apprehensive; but I need not have worried.  Bridge the World had not  let  us down.  QANTAS took our existing tickets, and stapled them to  new ones.  My only complaint was that the tickets were now much more bulky and difficult, though not impossible, to put away.
            We went through to the cafeteria where I ate my second chicken dish of the day from the Italian counter. Much to Hilde's annoyance, while eating I managed to get a couple of food stains on my shirt,. 
            At about 8 p.m., we moved into the departure area, which was much more comfortable than where we had been  previously sitting.  I felt that I deserved some sort of brownie point for that, for I had had great difficulty persuading Hilde that we should go through to the  departure lounge.  She thought that it was far too early, and that there would be fewer facilities there.  I was quite convinced that there would be more, and I was right.  In particular, we could have eaten in possibly greater comfort than in the public area. The departure area seemed to be full of white-clad Muslims of both sexes, who I imagined were  passengers for Jeddah, for when that flight was announced, most of them vanished.
            At 9.30 we boarded our flight, a Jumbo jet, one of the new versions with upward slanting wing tips which, with other new technical devices,  enabled it to fly non-stop from London to Singapore.  It was my first flight in a Jumbo jet, though it was not to be my last.  I was extremely impressed with the standard of service on board.  We were given flight bags containing travel tooth brushes and toothpaste, face flannels, shades for the eyes to enable sleep to come easily, and bed socks.  Screens in all the cabins, when not showing feature films,  displayed maps which showed the route and where the aircraft was at any particular moment with details of altitude, whether conditions, speed, and  the estimated time of arrival.
The only problem was that my headphones did not work.  The stewardess, having tested them, suggested that we might move to another seat where the equipment would work, but we couldn't be bothered, as we were both rather tired, and felt that we should get to sleep as quickly as possible.  That was not going to be possible until the meal had been served, with free drinks before and during the meal.  QANTAS is very generous with free drink.  One could, if one was foolish enough, become quiet befuddled on a long distance QANTAS flight.
            Supper was over by about 11.30 and we settled down to sleep, though I did not find that particularly easy, as I find sleeping difficult when I am half reclining in an aircraft seat.
 
 
 
Day 2, Thursday 21st May, 1992
Singapore
I woke at about 4 a.m., feeling decidedly uncomfortable for I had been sitting on the folded blanket that QANTAS had provided, and that was clearly a mistake for its edges had made unpleasant grooves to my backside.  I left the seat and went to the toilet, where I washed, and cleaned my teeth using the travel toothbrush and toothpaste that the airline had so thoughtfully provided.
            I went back to my seat and tried to sleep, but soon the first film was being screened, 'Hear my Song', which I would have liked to see and hear, for it had received extremely good reviews.  I managed to see quite a lot of it, but as my earphones were still not working, I couldn't hear any of it,.  I rather regretted not taking up the stewardess's offer of a different seat.  I put the shades back on and tried, with some success, to sleep.  I must have slept for just over an hour, for when I woke up the film was just about to end. 
            It was followed at once by J.F.K., another film that had received good reviews, and that I would have liked to see and hear.  Again as there was no question of it, so I didn't bother to try.  Instead I read John Le Carre's 'The Secret Pilgrim' until the film was over.
            We were now within two hours of touch down in Singapore, and a meal described on the menu as Brunch was served accompanied by Australian champagne.
            In recent months British Airways has been describing itself on advertisements as “The World’s Favourite Airline.”   I am fairly confident that it has given itself that title.  So far as I am  concerned Qantas is my favourite airline.
            We landed at Singapore Airport at 6.30 p.m., though it was only 11.30 a.m. on our internal biological clocks.  The terminal buildings were very impressive.  If we had not already known that Singapore is economically very successful, the condition of the airport would have indicated that.
            Once we stepped out into the open, the heat really seemed to hit us, but fortunately the taxi was air-conditioned, so the drive to the hotel was not unpleasant.  I was struck by the modernity of everything that we passed, though, as we entered the city, there were a few older buildings. 
            Our hotel, The Mirama, was also very modern, one of Singapore’s many new skyscrapers.  Our room was very comfortable and looked out on the swimming pool which, though belonging to the hotel,  was on the roof of an adjacent building.  We both had baths, which took a little longer than we had anticipated, for the first bath took a considerable time to empty; then, at about 8 p.m., having booked a city tour for the following day, we stepped out into the heat of the night streets.
            Our first problem was to find some way of crossing the extremely busy road, but after a while we did find a footbridge and crossed to look at the fish restaurant on the other side, which we then decided not to use.  We walked in a desultory fashion up and down the street looking for somewhere to buy a meal, but found nothing: though the following day we realised that if we had continued just a few paces more in the direction of the main part of the city, we would have found any number of restaurants to choose from.
            Feeling, by now, quite hungry, we returned to our hotel, and looked at the menu of the restaurant on the ground floor: Jake's Place, a steak house.
            As we did so, Hilde heard voices speaking German in an Austrian dialect.  They were the voices of a couple from Salzburg, and when we got into conversation with them, we learnt that they had just completed a four months' motor caravan tour of Australia, which they had loved.  They were particularly enthusiastic about Perth, which they said was a most attractive city.  They too had been looking for somewhere to eat, and had eaten at the fish restaurant on the other side of the road which we had rejected.  We were right to reject it.  The Austrian man said that he had just had the most expensive plate of fish flavoured rice in the world.
            Hilde and I ate well at Jake's Place: garlic steak for Hilde; steak with oysters for me, and we drank a carafe of French wine.  We went to bed at just before midnight: though it was only 5 p.m. on our biological clocks.
 
Day 3. Friday, 22nd May, 1992
Singapore
We had a good breakfast in the hotel; I had egg, bacon, sausage, and fried egg, and Hilde fruit.  We then discovered that the amount we had already paid in London for the room, did not include breakfast, and eating as much as that each day was going to be a trifle expensive.  We paid, and left, into the heat of the streets, where we boarded the minibus which was to take us to the City Tour Coach. 
            Only two other guests from our hotel were going on the tour, a couple from Woolwich, who were also en-route to Australia.  They seemed quite thrilled by the fact that last night they were able to eat in a MacDonalds.
            When we got out at the coach station, we found that   we were already becoming acclimatised, and were not so bothered by the heat.  After a few minutes wait we boarded our coach.  The guide was a Singapore Tamil Indian, and the driver, who he referred to as the coach captain, a Singapore Malay.  We were taken first to Indian Town, which was quite small, and, paradoxically, appeared to be occupied mainly by Chinese, though there were a few Indians still living there.                                 
            We then went on to China Town.  The name is something of a misnomer, for, the vast majority of the whole population of Singapore are Chinese, and in that sense, the entire city
could be labelled ‘China Town’, but this was the oldest Chinese residential and shopping area, and the buildings are much as the whole city may have looked nearly a century ago, though, of course, the shops do have electricity, telephones, computers and cash registers today.
            We visited a Chinese temple, dedicated to the God of the Sea, where, along with the many other tourists, there were several Chinese worshippers.  Our Indian guide, made obeisance before the image of the God; and later did likewise in the Hindu temple.  He believed in pacifying each and every god, of whatever religion;  presumably as a kind of insurance policy.  Though they might not all exist, by behaving in that way,  he probably  stood a fair chance of pleasing any gods that did exist.
            Most of  the buildings of Singapore are very modern, and we were told that until recently, many  older buildings like the ones that we saw in China Town and Indian Town were being pulled down and replaced with new construction.  However, of late, the authorities have decided that it is better to preserve these relics of the past, and we were shown old buildings that had been carefully refurbished, and although looking pretty much as they had looked in the old days, were now much more comfortable inside, with all the fittings thought necessary for modern life.
            The city tour also took in the business district, to a silk garment factory, where we spent some time, and where we bought something for Tomoko,  our nephew, Ralph’s Japanese wife.  Next we were taken up  to the highest point on the island, Bukit Timah Hill, which is not particularly high, about 581 metres.  We also passed and photographed Raffles Hotel, which in its white graceful elegance is totally unlike the typical Singapore skyscraper hotel of today.
            We passed some of the mansions which in colonial days had been occupied by government administrators and wealthy business people.  They are still owned by the wealthy, but their owners now tend to be Singaporean, not British. 
            It was obvious from all that we saw, that Singapore is now a very prosperous state, with none of the offensive signs of poverty that disfigure other South East Asian cities.  Our guide told us that the government was trying to provide enough day nurseries for the children of working mothers.  At present, very many women have jobs, and there are thousands of nannies employed by the middle-classes, though these are seldom Singapore citizens, but almost always are guest workers from other parts of Asia, holding temporary work permits.
            Another feature that took me by surprise was the quite startling cleanliness of everything; and, in particular, the total absence of insects.  Almost everything was spotlessly clean.  This owed much to the puritanical insistence on order, of the previous prime minister, Lee Kuan Yew, who had managed, within the space of a very few years to transform Singapore from the seedy romantic port of Somerset Maugham, into the antiseptic ultramodern city that it is today.  From the point of view of the tourist that may be rather a pity; but it is probably a welcome change so far as most of the citizens are concerned.
            The tour, which also took in the botanical gardens was interesting, but by the time it had finished, the heat had managed to get to us, and we were very tired.  Clearly we were not quite as acclimatised as I had thought.
            Back at the hotel we decided to eat there, and went to the Chinese restaurant on the third floor.  I was delighted to find that this was not just a Chinese restaurant, but was a restaurant for Chinese.  We were the only European patrons, and had a very good meal which we ate with chopsticks, as no knives and forks were available,   and with it we drank Chinese tea without milk or sugar.
            By the time we had finished, the restaurant was about to close, so we went up to our room, where we slept for a while.  At around four we got up and went to look at the swimming pool.  I suggested to Hilde that she might care to have a swim whilst I went back to the room and wrote some cards; but she didn't much like that idea.  Instead we went down to the lobby, where we purchased tickets for a cruise in the harbour on the next morning in what purported to be a Chinese junk.  Then we walked into the centre of the city.
            We explored one of the many enclosed shopping centres, which was like an upmarket version of Royal Victoria Place in Tunbridge Wells.  Hilde purchased a rather nice silk shirt for $49, which is about £19.60.  I toyed with the idea of buying a new case for my camera, but decided not to.  A decision that I have regretted ever since, for a similar case would cost more than twice as much anywhere else.
            Within the shopping centre were several restaurants, but the patrons were all Singapore Chinese.  Had I not been in Singapore, I would have thought them to be Japanese business people.  They looked extremely prosperous, enjoying their own food in their own restaurants in their own city.  It was as it should be.  They did not need British officials lording it over them, that was obvious.  They were doing well for themselves, and, in many cases, clearly doing much better than the average Briton at home.
            We walked on to Raffles Hotel, where we entered the Long Bar and drank Singapore Slings, which cost $22 (£8.80).  The following day we purchased that cocktail elsewhere for considerably less; but it was worth paying the difference in Raffles, for apart from the fact that only they seem to know how to make them properly, the ambience was delightful. 
            The bar was very crowded, and the floor covered with peanut shells for unshelled peanuts were available on every table.  At the next table were a party of young European men in evening dress, accompanied by extremely attractive Eurasian girls.  The men were making a great deal of noise, and showing off, as young men often do when sitting with beautiful females. One was drinking beer from a yard long glass which terminated in a bulb.  To the amusement of his friends he was finding it extremely difficult, and managed to get some beer onto his clothes. I thought that they could  be members of a wedding party from the way that they were dressed; but, on the other hand, the girls could have been high class prostitutes.
            After we had finished our drinks we left.  We were both hungry, but felt that a meal in Raffles Hotel was an extravagance that we should deny ourselves on this early stage of our holiday.  Instead, on our way back, we stopped for a meal at the Excelsior.  I had Kebab, Hilde had Beuf Stroganoff.  It was more expensive than we had anticipated; but the price, if not the dishes, seemed typical for Singapore.
            We walked back to our hotel, and were in bed by about 11 p.m.
 
Day 4, Saturday, 23rd May, 1992
Singapore and Perth
Today we were to fly on to Perth, but after breakfast we discovered that we had been mistaken in our belief that we could leave our luggage in our room until 4 p.m., so we had to take it down to the lobby to be stored in the porters’ room.  We then took a taxi to Clifton Pier, from where we boarded the powered junk for the tour of the harbour that we had booked.
            The vessel looked like a Chinese junk, but had, I think, been purpose built for its task.  It had an air conditioned, central saloon, where food and drink could be purchased; but, despite the air conditioning, for much of the trip we preferred to remain outside on the quarter deck from where much more could be seen.
            The captain had the unchinese name of Abdul, and appeared to be a Singapore Malay.  I'm not sure if the title ‘Captain’ was not simply an honorary one, for he did not seem to take any interest in the operation of the ship, and issued no commands to the crew.  Instead his task seemed to be, to sit forward on the starboard side, and, with a microphone, to describe all that we passed.  He was really, the tour guide.
            As we left the pier, we could see the many skyscraper office blocks and hotels that are such a feature of modern Singapore, including one, which we were told was the tallest hotel in the world.  That may well be true, for taller buildings such as The Empire State and the World Trade Centre in New York, and the Sears Building in Chicago, are office blocks rather than hotels.
            Once out in the harbour, we passed some real trading junks at anchor, and then, out in the roads, scores, if not hundreds, of stationary cargo ships, of every shape, size, and nationality.  Many of them had rather a lot of rust where there ought to have been gleaming paint-work, but I suppose they were all seaworthy.  Perhaps the rust was deliberate, intended to make some of the pirates, who are still at large in Malaysian and Indonesian waters, think that the ship contains nothing much of value. I thought of the pirates as we cruised through this shipping, and wondered if they ever bring their fast launches as close to the city as this.  They might have obtained  rich pickings from the tourists on board the junk; but I suppose the activities of the armed harbour police and the Singapore Navy keep them at bay.
            Our destination was an island containing an ancient Chinese temple, which had been built by a great Chinese admiral, who was himself, oddly enough, a Muslim, and  also a eunuch..  When we got to the island it was raining heavily, but the crew provided umbrellas for those who wished to go ashore.  Hilde and I walked to the temple, which, did not look quite so ancient as we  had expected.  It was colourful, though not so interesting as the one that we had visited on the mainland the previous day. 
                        At a table, some way from the main shrine, a girl, dressed in a rather dirty blouse and jeans was sitting, talking to two policemen.  When we got closer we realised that it was a transvestite, the first we had seen in Singapore, though, I understand that very many of the prostitutes in the city are transvestites.
            Back on the junk, on the return journey, we talked to a German couple who had arrived from Bangkok.  They told us that they had found that city quite peaceful.  Nevertheless, when we were back on shore, the headlines on the newspapers in a kiosk suggested otherwise.  I still think we were wise not to land there.
            On shore we walked round for a while, as Hilde did not wish to return to the hotel just yet.  It was the lunch hour, and the streets were full of hurrying Singapore yuppies,  which meant that the cafes, restaurants and snack bars far too full for our liking.
            We managed to get lost for a while, and then saw that we were near Raffles Hotel again.  It was very hot, and, Noel Coward's 'Mad Dogs and Englishmen' who went out in the midday-sun, at least had the sense to wear pith helmets on their heads; ours were completely uncovered. After about half an hour of this I persuaded Hilde that we should get back to the hotel, where, even if we had no room to go to, we could enjoy the air-conditioning.  We caught a taxi and were there within a few minutes.
            We ate lunch in Jake's Place, salad and Tiger Beer for me: and then sat in the reception hall writing cards to our children.
            At around 4.30 p.m. we took a taxi to the airport, and boarded the QANTAS plane at 6.45 p.m. which took off at 7.45 for the four hour flight to Perth. Once again we appreciated QANTAS hospitality, I had brandy before supper; and this time my headphones worked.  During the flight, the film 'Grand Canyon' was shown, but I did not bother to look at it, preferring to enjoy the music on the headphones. I listened to the classical, and the popular classical music programmes for most of the time.  They both contained a very good selection of music, and the orchestras and almost all the other performers were native Australians.
            We landed at 12.30, but because the ground staff had some difficulty opening the baggage doors, we could not collect our luggage until 1.30 a.m..  I think we stood by the carousel for at least three quarters of an hour, before the cases began to appear.
            Once through customs and immigration, we were greeted by Ruby, Ralph and Tomoko, and by a young man whom I took to be someone I should have known, so I shook hands with him; but he turned out to be the driver of the stretched limousine that Tomoko had hired to take us back to Ruby's house.  We were to discover that she is given to making expensive gestures of that nature.
            At that time of night, we could see very little once we left the terminal buildings, apart from the fact that it was raining heavily.  I had been telling Hilde that though this was to be the Australian Winter, it would be nothing like our winter, and that the weather would be fine.  I was now beginning to wonder if I was right about that.
            The journey seemed to take rather a long time, and at no point did we appear to be going through the streets of a large city; that was hardly surprising as the International airport is on the North of the city, as is Beldon, the outer suburb where my sister lives, but we finally arrived at her home.  It is a very pleasant bungalow with swimming pool, that belongs to her eldest son, my nephew Bill, who has been transferred to Sydney by his company.  She shared it with my brother-in-law until he died suddenly last November within a month of his 71st birthday.
            Hilde and I were both rather tired, but, inevitably, we sat talking and drinking tea for over an hour, finally getting to bed at around 3.30 p.m.
 
Day 5, Sunday 24th May 1992
Perth
I awoke at around 11 a.m.  The rain had stopped, and it looked like an English day in June.  I had a shower, dressed, and drank a cup of tea that Ruby had made and then looked at the house.  It is a very comfortable bungalow, with an enclosed garden, containing, the swimming pool, a barbecue area, and orange and banana trees.  It is certainly a more comfortable place than the council house in which she lived before leaving England. 
            Hilde rose and showered, and then we had breakfast, with Ruby and me talking ten to the dozen all through the meal.  Later Hilde said that she felt quite overwhelmed by the two of us, for Ruby never stops talking, and I become quite garrulous when I am with her.  At about 12.30, we left the house, and took a look at Beldon. 
            It is a suburb that did not exist thirty years ago, when much of the area was desert and scrub. Ruby loves it, and that is hardly surprising, for she has a comfortable house, and a shopping centre at the end of  the road; and her son, daughter-in-law and two little grandsons are living just around the corner.
            Hilde disliked it; and, although I did not feel quite so negative about Beldon I could understood her feeling.  The district seems to be totally without character; a comfortable cultural desert, built on a real desert, with long streets of prosperous looking bungalows, but with no point where one could say, “Here we are in the middle of Beldon.” Scattered about there are shopping precincts, some schools, some churches and some parks: and that is it. 
            As in America, the car is king, and with a car you can easily leave Beldon for the countryside to the North, for the city to the South, and for the beaches close to hand.  Without a car one is almost trapped in the place, for the buses to and from Perth stop running soon after 6 p.m., so if one wished to visit a theatre, or have a meal in a Perth restaurant, one would have to take an expensive taxi back afterwards.
            Yet the population all looked contented and happy to be there.  Ruby certainly was, even though she has no car.  She does not want to spend her evenings in Perth, and she has made friends and has family close to hand.  Both Patrick and Ralph, her two sons living close by, have cars, and sometimes take her on trips, and she is satisfied with that.
            My sister's road, Gradient Way, is long and curving and fairly wide, with very little traffic most of the day, and is made up of tidy bungalows, each set in its own garden, with much grass, some trees, some flowers, and lots of sandy soil.  Perhaps every second or third house has its own swimming pool, but these are usually behind fences for privacy and cannot be seen from the road.  The people are  English speakers, yet it is very un-English and rather as I imagined that an American suburb might look.  Later, particularly in Oregon, I was to find that my supposition  was correct.
            We walked along Gradient Way, and, at the first junction turned right, into a street looking very much the same, and were soon at my nephew, Patrick's house.  Another bungalow, bright and airy, but with a garden that still showed signs of its desert origin. The lawn in the front was healthy enough, but the back was still largely sand.  Incredibly, considering the setting  there are quite a lot of decent gardens in Beldon, for once work is done on the land, things seem to grow; and no doubt, in a year or so Patrick's garden will look nice: but not yet.
            Pat and his wife, Keeley, were delighted to see us; and we to see them: particularly the three and a half year old twins whom we had never seen.  Little Harry was very keen to meet us.  So had been little Robert, until he saw me.  At once he burst into tears.  He does not like hairy men, and I am bearded.  He clung to his father, sobbing, whilst I made funny faces to show him that though I might be stupid, I was not dangerous.  However, after a short time, he stopped crying, and when he saw the gifts we had brought, in particular a little model of a circus van with a cage containing a lion, he decided that we would be friends, and from then on, he seemed very pleased to be with me.
            Pat drove us back to Ruby's house, where later we were joined by Keeley and the twins, and Ralph and Tomoko.  In the afternoon, in two cars, we were taken to the cemetery, where my brother-in-law, Archie, is buried.  It is a beautiful place, looking like a stretch of countryside, but with well tended lawns and many trees.  There are no headstones, but plates set in the ground over each grave.  People come there to picnic in the Summer, an idea that did not seem in the least inappropriate.  We were very moved as we looked at Archie's grave, and Hilde began to cry. As we drove away later, Hilde saw her first Kangaroo, resting in part of the cemetery.
            We were then driven to Sorrento, which is not in the least like the Italian town of that name.  It is a popular coastal resort with a large amusement complex built on a jetty over the sea.  Despite it being Winter, though by our standards a very warm winter, it was crowded with people, including entertainers.  One of the twins, I forget which one, I couldn't tell them apart in any case, began to cry when he saw a clown.  I hope that it wasn't Robert.  It would be sad if he found both clowns and bearded men frightening.
            Back at Ruby's with the whole family present, we had a barbecue-like meal, though the actual barbecue was not used; and then, at 9 p.m., as we were still both rather tired, we went to bed.
                                                Day 6, Monday 25th May, 1992
Perth
At 8.30 we were both up and feeling quite fresh with no further traces of jet-lag. It was another lovely day, as warm as a good day in late May in England. After breakfast we left the house to find that the bus stop was just by Ruby's front door.  After a ten minute wait the bus arrived.  It was a clean, comfortable, Australian made, single deck vehicle, with a very pleasant driver, who seem to go out of his way to be nice to a pensioner who boarded with us and seemed unsure of his destination.  I wondered if the driver was typical of Western Australians, and, after a few days, decided that he was.  I found that everywhere we went the treatment that we received from staff in shops, on public transport, or in restaurants, was uniformly friendly, and usually very efficient.  Frankly I had not expected this, for I had been told that some Australians could be very surly.  So far, I have met just one almost surly Australian, in the Sydney Opera House, of all places; but by English standards she might even have been classed as friendly.
            The bus ride into Perth took an hour; at first by way of other prosperous looking centre-less sprawling bungalow suburbs, as far as Warwick, where we pulled into a large bus station and had to change to another bus.  Soon after that stop we were on the freeway and travelling much faster, and after a little while we could see the skyscrapers of central Perth ahead of us.  The last part of the journey took us past industrial estates, shopping malls, and fast food outlets, with lots of large, garish signs.  It was as I imagined that I would find in America.
            After the bus left the freeway it travelled through some rather mean city streets, not unlike those in the Kings Cross area of London, until it reached the bus terminal.  We dismounted, and walked, by way of the central railway station and across a pedestrian footbridge, into a much more attractive section of Perth, a large traffic-free square, with the general post office on one side, and Myer's Department Store, one of the two largest in Perth, on the other.
            Our first stop was to be an information bureau, when we could find one.  Ruby had no idea where it would be.  We tried the post office, but though they had the most attractive post office card and gift shop that I have seen in a long time, they did not have an information bureau, though they knew where it was: just next door to the post office.  If we had used our eyes before we went into the post office we would have seen it, for the sign was large enough.  We went in, and I enquired about trips to Kalgoorlie, for before we had left England, we had thought that it would be nice to take Ruby to that historic mining centre.  The assistant gave me some leaflets, but, as we were a little pushed for time, I did not attempt to book anything then.
            We left the information centre, having picked up a dozen or so other leaflets on Western Australian sights, and walked through the city, by way of the several lively and attractive pedestrian shopping precincts, in one of which we saw our second aborigine, the first was one of Ruby's neighbours in Beldon.  This one was a busker, seated on the pavement and playing rather lugubriously, a didgeridoo.  Though, come to think of it,  I'm not sure that a didgeridoo can be played in any way other than lugubriously. 
            We had arranged to  meet Tomoko near her office, and when we arrived, she took us up to a revolving restaurant at the top of a skyscraper, where we were soon joined by Ralph, and had a very fine meal, while enjoying the magnificent views of this lovely city.
            Ralph had to return to his office, but Tomoko took us to her car, and then dropped us at Kings Park.  Kings Park  is situated on a cliff overlooking the Swan River.  Perhaps River is the wrong term for that stretch of water, for it is really a large tidal estuary which separates the city centre from South Perth, and provides a wonderful setting for all manner of water sports.
            Kings Park is a glorious place, nearly 600 hectares in area and containing roads, walks, and bush trails; for the greater part of the Park is still bush land, with the original vegetation.  People of all ages must love the Park, for there is so much that can be done there.  Unfortunately, we did not have the time, nor was I of the age, to do very much that afternoon. We did not explore the park to any great extent, but remained fairly near the road, taking photographs of  the estuary, of the city to our left; and of some birds perched on a drinking fountain.  In front of us was the war memorial, and quite near it, a smaller, Jewish war memorial, containing the names of all the Jewish servicemen from West Australia who were killed in the two wars.  I saw that the names of the dead, on the Jewish memorial,  were in rank order, with the first name that of a captain, and the last that of a private.  This is a feature that I have noticed on very many war memorials and commemorative plaques in churches; and I think it is an awful pity, that even in death, rank should be thought so important.
            We had heard that the restaurant in the park was very good, but, unfortunately it was closed for redecoration; so, we had tea in the nearby cafeteria; then, at around 4.30, we walked to a bus stop and took a bus back to the city centre.  This cost us nothing, for one of the many civilised features of this splendid city, is that bus travel in the centre is totally free.  I imagine that this may be a device to reduce the number of cars in the city centre.  I wish London would try it.
            Our destination was Tomoko's office, several floors up in a skyscraper, the lobby of which was decorated with a splendid collection of aborigine art.  Tomoko works for a Japanese company, and two of her subordinates are Japanese men.  I understand that such an arrangement would be almost unheard of in Japan, where 'business ladies' are generally given inferior posts to those of business men.  We were introduced to one of those gentlemen, and chatted for a while until she was ready to leave.  She took us down in the lift to the car park, where we were joined by Ralph and taken to their car, and driven to their home in Warwick: another very comfortable bungalow, rather larger than Ruby's with a billiard room, and a room which Ralph referred to ironically as the 'Imelda Marcus' room, as it had nothing in it, but lots and lots of pairs of Tomoko's shoes.  She is a very fashion conscious young lady.  There is also, of course, a swimming pool.
            We sat and watched the news on TV, and then Ralph drove us back to Ruby's for supper, followed by the viewing of photographs, conversation, and finally bed.
            Before she went to sleep, Hilde admitted that, despite her dislike of its outer suburbs, she had found Perth to be a most attractive city.
 
                     Day 7 Tuesday 26th May, 1992
Perth and Fremantle
After breakfast, with Ruby,  we again took the bus to Perth.  Once there we went straight to the information office, and enquired about the trip to  Kalgoorlie.  However, we discovered that as the journey would take much of one day, and that there would be no point in going if we did not spend at least two nights there, that would mean that four days of our two weeks in Western Australia would have to be spent on that one expedition.  It would also be rather expensive, with train tickets for three people, and two night's hotel accommodation, not to mention all the other costs that the trip would entail. 
            I had purchased £1,000 in travellers' cheques before we left England, but  after only seven days, that amount had been considerably depleted, and I was worried that we could easily run out of funds before the holiday was over.  Actually, I knew that that would be almost impossible, for, although we might spend all the £1,000, we could easily use our credit cards to purchase goods, or even money, but I had no wish to return to England to find a huge credit card bill awaiting payment.
            I discussed this with Hilde and Ruby, and they both suggested that we should abandon the idea.  Hilde had always been sceptical about this particular project; and, I now discovered that Ruby had not been all that keen on it either, but had only gone along with the idea because I had suggested it.  She really had no wish to explore a gold mine, or visit a mining museum, which were the chief 'attractions' of Kalgoorlie.  So, with some relief, I agreed that the Kalgoorlie visit would have to be postponed until some future visit to Australia.
            However, the main purpose of this day, was to visit Fremantle, so we made our way to the station, and caught the train which got us there very quickly. 
            I must admit, that when we came out of Fremantle Station, I was a little disappointed, though I did not say so at the time, but we only had to walk a short distance before the charm of the place got to me.  We made our way to the Fishing Boat Harbour, from where the competing yachts in the America's Cup races sailed in 1987, and where we were to find Lombardo's, the seafood restaurant described in my guide book as serving the best fish and chips in the State.  Lombardo's itself, is an interesting complex, of mainly wooden construction built partly on a jetty extending out over the harbour (Alas when we returned to Fremantle in 1997, we discovered that Lombardo’s had closed).  We ordered fish and chips, I forget which particular fish we had, but it was delicious, and fully justified the enthusiastic prose of the guide book.  We sat on the veranda to eat our meal, and were quickly joined by numerous seabirds eager to enjoy it also.  I am surprised that they can still fly, for, throughout the year, they must have a pretty easy life and get very fat on the scraps that are thrown to them by the customers of Lombardo's.
            After our meal, we walked the few yards to the Western Australian Maritime Museum, where, for a while I followed around a school party of Australian teen-agers and listened to the remarks that their teachers were making about the exhibits.  The most important of these is what is left of the Dutch ship, The Batavia, which was wrecked on these shores in 1629.  Not much is left, actually, just the curved side of part of the hull, and, in order to preserve it, the humidity in the exhibition room is kept at a particular level which I found rather uncomfortable.
            Despite my discomfort, I remained near that exhibit for some time; for, although there was little of the ship to be seen, I found the account of the voyage and the wreck quite fascinating, for the ship foundered after a mutiny, the chief perpetrators of which, were, unlike the Bounty mutineers, subsequently brought to justice by the Dutch authorities and hanged. 
            This relic, and much else that I had learnt about Western Australia, reminded me that long before the British had claimed the territory, the Dutch had visited it.  However, they had not thought the Island Continent  worth seizing at the time, a task that we undertook over one hundred and fifty years later.  I wonder what Australia would be like today, if it had been a Dutch possession.  Would the Dutch Australians be as enlightened as appear to be the people of present day Holland: or would they be as unenlightened as the descendants of those other Dutch colonists, the Boers of South Africa?  I suspect that latter would have been the case, and the fate of the aborigine population might have been even worse than it has been under the British settlers.
            From the museum, we walked the short distance along the harbour to a large building in which a replica of Captain Cook's ship, H.M. Bark, Endeavour, was being constructed.  We paid the entrance fee and went in; but we should not really have bothered.  When the ship has been built, it will be well worth a visit, but, when we were there, there was not very much to see.  We stood on a platform above the hull, which seemed to be about two-thirds constructed, and watched the builders at work.  I'm sure that it will be a splendid replica when it is finished, but they were certainly not using eighteenth century techniques to construct it, for the air was filled with the whine of power tools in operation.
            We walked through the main streets, which were so well preserved in their Victorian splendour, that, but for the cars, one could almost imagine that it was the turn of the century.  We were looking for somewhere for coffee, and eventually found the Norfolk Hotel, where we sat in the garden with our drinks.  While I was ordering coffee for the ladies and beer for myself, I was so amused by the menu on the wall that I took a photograph of it.  When the Queen had last visited Australia, some newspapers in Britain, and I suspect, Australia, had expressed outrage, that at one point the Australian Prime Minister had put his hand on the Queen's shoulder.  The menu at the Norfolk Hotel, which seemed to be in coloured chalk on a large blackboard was decorated with a drawing of the Queen and the Prime Minister, but with the Queen having her arm around his shoulder.
 
            Before we ended our visit to Fremantle, we entered the prison, which had been in use between 1855 and 1991 when it had closed as a prison, but had reopened, almost immediately, as a public exhibition.  We took the one hour guided tour which visited the main cell block, the chapels, the exercise yards, solitary confinement cells and the gallows.  It was interesting, but, inevitably depressing; though no more depressing than the six months that I had spent in 1955 during my last Civil Service posting, when, as an executive officer, I was the Governor's Clerk in H.M. Prison, Lincoln.  Much that I saw that day reminded me of Lincoln Prison, though some aspects of Fremantle Prison were more reminiscent of an American Prison: in particular the exercise yards, which the prison officers never entered alone, but which they observed from a closed, safe, enclosure, with telephone and alarm bells to hand in case a riot occurred, and assistance was required.  On the wall of the exercise yards, and in some of the buildings were paintings by the prisoners.  These are now recognised as works of genuine art, and the ex-prisoner artists, if still alive, receive royalties if reproductions are made.
            I would have hated to have been a prisoner in Lincoln Prison, particularly in the Winter, when it must have been fairly cold in the cells; but I think I would have hated even more being a prisoner in Fremantle Prison in the height of the Western Australian summer, when trying to sleep in the confines of a cell in that, more than British, heat must have been an absolute torture.  It was no wonder that some prisoners went mad.
            A very large proportion of the prisoners seem to have been aborigines, in numbers far greater than was justified by the absolute size of the aborigine population.  I am fairly confident that this had nothing much to do with any tendency to crime or lawlessness on the part of the aborigines, but a great deal to do with the attitude of the Western Australian authorities towards them.  Western Australia does not have a very good reputation in this respect: though fortunately, in recent years things seem to be changing somewhat for the better.
            We were shown where prisoners had been flogged as a punishment, and that occasioned a remark from a member of our visitors' party, who suddenly said:  "I was flogged like that at School."  Which amazed everyone, including the guide, a young woman.  It turned out that he was an English ex-public school boy, who had been flogged by his house-master to such an extent that there were marks on his flesh for some time afterwards.  When asked what had been his crime, he said "Theft", but immediately qualified that admission by saying that he had only 'stolen' his own property which had been previously confiscated by the house master.
            Most of the party seemed shocked by this revelation.  I was a little myself, and surprised that such practices continued, for the young man was not much over 21.  As I had received my education at pre-war and war time elementary schools, I had rather missed such character building features of a public school education.  What might I have become had I enjoyed such advantages?
            When the tour was over, we went back to the station as quickly as we could, for we did not know the time of the last train.  We caught the 5.50 to Perth, but need not have worried, for I have since learnt that the service continued well into the night.  However, in Perth, we were too late for the last bus to Beldon, so had to take a taxi, which cost $24. 
 
Day 8, Wednesday, 27th May, 1992
Perth
This morning we were to go into Perth, for the first time without Ruby.  We were getting our things ready for the bus when Hilde said: “Where have you put my travellers’ cheques?”
            “I haven’t put them anywhere,” I replied. “Why should I have them?”
            "I gave them to you in Singapore," she answered, “when we were putting our things in the hotel safe; but I don’t think that you gave them back to me.”
            That was a complete surprise to me, for I hadn't even thought about her travellers’ cheques when we withdrew our valuables from the safe, though nearly half of the £1,000 in cheques which we had started with, had been in her name.  In Singapore I had simply given her back all that was hers and   I had imagined that her travellers’ cheques were in the wallet that she carried.  However, the bus would be due in a few moments, so there wasn’t really time to investigate; but we would have to look into it that evening.  The whole thing put something of a damper on our enjoyment of the day.
            Once in the city, we made our way to the Barrack Street Jetties to book a river cruise. There were quite a few to choose from, but we settled for a cruise that afternoon that would take us up river to Tranby House, an early 19th Century settler’s home.
            Once we had made our booking, we walked along the waterfront, and Hilde took a photograph of an ancient grey painted boat house, that was probably the oldest building on the edge of the water.  We moved inland, and entered the Old Courthouse, which, dating from 1836 may be the oldest building in Perth.  It is quite small, and was soon far too tiny to cope with the growing population of the colony, and sixty years later, the large and impressive, adjacent, Supreme Court Building was opened.  The Old Courthouse is now a very attractive museum, with, near its entrance, a wax effigy, of a judge, in full robes, and with an extremely supercilious expression on his face.  The main courtroom is preserved much as it was in the 19th century, and other rooms are furnished appropriately, and peopled with effigies in the clothes of the period.  In one, a white faced solicitor sits at his desk with a very smug expression on his face. A Victorian lady and gentleman are sitting opposite, but presumably the news that the smug solicitor has given them was not pleasing, for the bearded gentleman looks extremely disgruntled.
            From the Old Courthouse we walked further into the city and had lunch, sitting at a table outside one of the cafe's in the Hay Street Mall.  I enjoyed a three-Decker sandwich as we listened to the didgeridoo of the same aborigine busker, whom we had heard on our first day in the city.  I decided that I rather liked the sound of didgeridoo music, though the range of that instrument is extremely limited.  I thought that a  didgeridoo would have been a wonderful present to take home to our eldest son, but as I could not have afforded to buy one, nor, having bought one could I have put it into our luggage, I quickly abandoned that idea.
            After our lunch, we walked back to the jetty.  We were far too early for the trip and strolled up and down for a while, and then, still much to early, we boarded the boat.  We were the only passengers on board for at least another quarter of an hour.  Hilde thought that it was extremely silly that we should already be there; but I justified it by saying that at least we could choose our seats.  In fact, as she well knew, I had insisted on boarding early, as I almost always do on these occasions, as I am an obsessive and terrified that I will be late: even when my intelligence tells me that there was no way that I could be late.  I have always been like that.  In my twenties I habitually arrived an hour early when meeting my then girl friend.  As she habitually arrived an hour late, I think she was trying to tell me something. Our romance was rather short lived.
            The boat, it was not by any means a ship, but a long single decked cruiser, filled up, and started on time.  It had a crew of two, the captain and the mate: the mate’s task being chiefly to serve refreshments, though he also took the helm on the return journey.  We cruised up river with the captain pointing out the various sights as we passed them, and giving information about the river.  Despite its size, and at Perth it is far more like a very large lake than a river, it can be quite shallow, and if vessels do not keep to the navigation channel, they can go aground.  We were also told that sharks have come up river from the sea, though I found that piece of information a little hard to credit if the river was so shallow in places; but I am not an expert on sharks. 
            Tranby House, our destination, was a few kilometres upriver from the city.  It was originally known as 'Peninsula Farm' and was build by a pioneer, Joey Hardey,  who had arrived in 1830 just one year after the Swan River Colony had been founded.  He built the house in 1839, and it is one of the oldest homes in Western Australia, and is now owned by the National Trust of Australia.  It is often referred to as a mansion, and, although,  not a particularly large house, that title is probably justified, for it is very comfortable, and has about it  an air of solid Nineteenth Century middle class luxury.  It is a whitewashed building, with a solid tile roof, mainly one story, but with some rooms on the first floor.  I suppose it could be called a chalet bungalow if that term did not usually suggest something far less grand. 
            It has white painted verandas running along two sides and an extensive garden, but with attractive brick paving surrounding the house.  Inside, the rooms are furnished and decorated much as they would have been when the house was built, and reinforce the impression of solid comfort.  To some extent they made me think of the Biedermeier period in early 19th Century Vienna, but when I mentioned that to Hilde, who is Austrian, and knows far more than I do about that period, she said that that was a ridiculous comparison.  Be that as it may, Mr Hardey had clearly done his best to provide as comfortable a home as possible for his family, and to some extent succeeded: but only to some extent, for they must have been plagued dreadfully by mosquitoes, other insects, and dangerous spiders, and have been in constant fear of the aborigines; who, for their part, and, perhaps with greater justification, were probably, in constant fear of them.
            On our return to Perth, we went shopping for a present for our next door neighbour, who had been left looking after our key and checking the post, for the whole six weeks that we were to be away.  Hilde found a set of tea towels decorated with aborigine patterns which she thought would please her.
            We then caught the bus, which was crowded with commuters so that we had to stand almost all the way to Warwick; where we changed to a half empty bus and sat comfortably the remaining distance to Beldon.
            After supper we spent some time looking for Hilde's travellers' cheques, but could not find them.  Some lucky person in Singapore was probably now richer by £490.  I telephoned American Express in Sydney, and explained our predicament.  I was told not to worry, and that the cheques would be replaced, and that I would be telephoned on the following morning before 10 a.m., when I would be given further information.  At this point my cynicism began to drop away.  American Express really did seem prepared to give as good a service as they always claim in their advertisements. 
            Nevertheless, as an additional insurance policy, I also telephoned my nephew, Ralph, who works for American Express, to explain our predicament. “No worries,”  he said.  After just four years in the country he has become quite Australian. “Just go in tomorrow, and ask for Kevin and tell him I’ve sent you.  I’d do it myself, but I've got to be in the Fremantle branch all tomorrow.”  I felt even better after that, though I decided that I would still wait for the morning telephone call from his company.
            We spent the rest of he evening writing cards home, and then went, once again, early to bed.
 
Day 9, Thursday 28th May, 1992
Perth
Because we had to wait for the call from the American Express office which we had been promised would come before ten, we could not catch our usual bus to Perth.  Unfortunately, it did not, so at ten-fifteen I telephoned them.  They were apologetic about not having telephoned on time, and told me to go to one of their Perth branches where new cheques would be issued.  So we caught the next bus, and just over an hour later were with Ralph’s colleague, Kevin.  It was as Ralph had said, “No worries!” Within about twenty minutes we emerged with £490 worth of new sterling travellers' cheques.
            By then the morning was virtually over, so we looked for somewhere to eat.  We found it at ‘The Moon and Sixpence’: an establishment that described itself, with some justification,  as ‘An English Pub’.  We sat outside at tables in enjoying the food and drink, and the very un-English Winter weather, which was more like that of a particularly good English Summer Day.
            From there, we walked by way of the Central Railway Station, to Northbridge, an area, a little like London’s Soho, which was full of interesting Italian, French, Greek, and Asiatic restaurants: there may also have been eating places which specialised in Australian cuisine, but I did not see them.  It also contained Frances Street, with the Western Australian Museum, The State Library, and the Art Gallery of Western Australia.  Our intention, that afternoon, had been to visit the Museum, but instead we made for the Art Gallery, which was housed in a very attractive modern building, having, on its forecourt, the almost obligatory statue by Henry Moore.  I don’t think I’ve been to a museum complex anywhere in Europe that did not have at least one Moore on display in the open, and judging by my experience in Perth, it seems that that might also be the case in the Antipodes.
            Inside the gallery they were showing a special exhibition of the paintings of Frederick McCubbin, a nineteenth century Australian genre artist.  The admission charge for that was $6, so we decided that we would look instead at the exhibits in the rest of the Gallery.  Actually, we saw something of McCubbin exhibition when we ascended to the first floor, for by looking over the balcony, one could see, though not close to hand, some of his paintings.  They looked quite interesting, but not so interesting as  to justify the purchase of tickets of admission.
            What we did see, free of charge, was very good indeed.  By the entrance was a temporary exhibition of work by students taking the New South Wales Higher Certificate examination.  I imagine that qualification is roughly equivalent to the  English ‘A’ level; but the work on display, was of a very high standard indeed; some of it impressing me far more than the work by internationally famous modern artists that was displayed on the first floor. 
            But what really impressed us both, was the display of aborigine art.  We spent more time in that part of the gallery, than in any other.  Hilde was particularly captivated by it, and whilst I, after a considerable time, moved on to look at other sections of the gallery, she remained there admiring the aborigine work for most of the afternoon. 
            Apart from the aborigine section, the gallery has a very fine collection of work from South East Asia and Melanesia; an extensive collection of paintings by 19th Century and Modern Australian artists, and a very good collection of works by contemporary international artists, which, despite my slightly derogatory comparison with the work of the New South Wales students, was every bit as good as similar displays that I have seen in galleries in Europe. 
            When Hilde could be finally drawn away from the aborigine gallery, we went downstairs and looked in the gallery shop, where there were many beautifully produced books on Australian art.  Now at home in England, I wish that I had bought some of them, and sent them home by post, but, at the time, all I could think of was their weight if we took them on the planes, and also our rapidly diminishing funds. 
            We finished our visit by going into the Gallery Café, which was light and airy, and a very worthy adjunct to the Art Gallery.  So often, in the past, one has seen an attractively designed café where the refreshments sold were a dreadful disappointment.  This was not the case with the Art Gallery café.  I had cheese cake and cappuccino, Hilde cappuccino and tiramisu.
            Time was running on, and reluctantly we left the Art Gallery and made for the Bus Station to catch the last bus back to Beldon.  There we got off a stop earlier than Gradient Way, and called at Ruby’s favourite supermarket, where we bought a wine box of West Australian  wine as our contribution to the evening meal.
 
Day 10, Friday, 29th May, 1992.
Perth and  Fremantle
Ruby came with us into Perth, where the first thing we did was to cash a £100 cheque at the American Express office.  Then we looked for somewhere to eat, and found the Venice Cafe in an alleyway beside Trinity Church.  There was nothing particularly Venetian about it, but it was pleasant enough as we sat out on the terrace, eating and drinking.
            At one, we boarded a coach for a tour to Fremantle and back.  Our first stop was at Lake Manger, where, on a grassy bank, across the road from a very expensive residential development, lived a colony of the black swans for which Western Australia is famous.  The coach remained there for about ten minutes whilst the passengers dismounted, and photographed the swans, and had photographs taken of themselves feeding the swans. There were also hundreds of sea birds in that area, but they seemed to keep away whilst the swans were accepting food.  Perhaps they had learnt to their bitter cost, that it was dangerous to try to steal food from such huge black creatures. These were the only black swans that I was to see in Australia.  In fact they were almost the only ones that I have ever seen, though I did see one, nearly thirty years before in another place that I had found rather exotic, Gorky Park in Moscow.
            After that single stop, the coach drove to  Scarborough on the coast and approached Fremantle along the coast road from the North, passing several popular bathing and water sport areas.  At Fremantle, we were set down and told that we had a couple of hours to explore the city before our return.
            Fremantle  is certainly very a very attractive city, and it has a unique atmosphere.  On the other hand, it is not a very large place, and we had seen quite a lot of it on our previous visit just three days before: but we wandered the back streets for a while, and then made for Miss Maud's on South Terrace, one of three Swedish restaurants of that name, the other two being in the City of Perth.  There we did not sample their famous Smorgasbord, as we were not very hungry, but the ladies had coffee and I had beer: Australian, not Swedish.
            When we were sufficiently refreshed, we made for the Fremantle Markets.  I don't know why one has to use the plural when referring to them; they, or rather it, are, or rather is, just one place, a huge Victorian covered market on the corner of two streets.  It was vast and interesting, and I rather wished that we had not stopped in Miss Maud's, though the beer had been good, for there were places in the market for refreshment, which were rather more atmospheric.  In one, a group of musicians were playing, but, as we were not going to buy, we had no excuse for loitering to listen. There were stalls selling pretty well everything, with lots of aborigine art and artefacts for sale.  Ruby bought an attractive T Shirt as a present for our daughter,  Katherine, who would shortly be having her twentieth birthday. 
            After that purchase, we wandered round looking at other stalls, but I was beginning to get worried that we would miss the coach, and I kept telling Ruby and Hilde that we should leave, though, in fact there was plenty of time.  However, tired of my nagging, they agreed, and we hurried back to the stop.  Of course, we were far too early, and had to wait nearly twenty minutes before our coach arrived, by which time, the other, more sensible, passengers had also arrived, though none of them more than five minutes before the time given for our departure.
            We approached Perth by the highway along the North shore of the estuary, which includes the area known popularly as 'Millionaires' Row', a mile or so of luxury waterside mansions that are actually owned by millionaires. 
            Perth has been called the 'Dallas' of Australia, for it possesses the largest concentration of millionaires in the whole country, though one of them, Alan Bond, was about to be declared bankrupt and to be put in prison for commercial trickery. That was a tragedy, not just for him, but for Perth, for Fremantle, for Western Australia, and, indeed, for the whole of Australia.  For Alan Bond was a hero.  He was the man who had bankrolled the winning Australian boat in the America's cup, who had brought the race to Fremantle, and caused that, slightly seedy Victorian town to be refurbished, to become famous, and to become after funds had been judiciously spend, as my guide book had put it 'the best preserved 19th century port city in the world'. 
            One detected: that very many Western Australians were sorry for Bond.  They didn't know if he was guilty of the crime for which he was sentenced; but they did know that he was guilty of the crime of doing a lot for their State, and bringing a fair amount of prosperity to Fremantle, and, even to Perth.  They did not take kindly to the snooty academics at Bond University which he had endowed, who were wondering whether they should change the name of the University now that he had brought disgrace to the name. 
            Alas, the name was changed, and now, several months later, Bond has been released from the prison farm where he had been incarcerated, as a higher court has decided that his conviction was unsafe.
            Our route also took us past the shell of the old Swan Brewery.  This was in the process of being demolished, so that a new building could be constructed on the site, when the aborigines announced that it was one of their sacred sites, and that to build on it would be sacrilege.  Presumably it was a sacred site when the brewery was originally built there; but in those far off days, the aborigines had very little clout, and, even if they had objected, no one paid any attention.  Now, the Australian authorities are more enlightened, and are treating their original native population with rather more respect.  As a consequence aborigine groups are proclaiming their rights.  That is almost certainly going to lead to more disputes like that of the Swan Brewery Site, for as one aborigine quoted in Bruce Chatwin's book, 'The Song Line's', said, when a white Australian remarked it would seem that the whole of Australia was a sacred site: "You're about right, there, mate."
            When we left the coach we made our way as quickly as we could to the bus station, and caught the last bus to Beldon: standing again all the way to Warwick.  In Ruby's house, after Supper, we began to watch an episode of 'The Darling Buds of May', but I was so tired that I fell asleep in front of the television.  I could almost have been at home in England.
 
Day 11, Saturday, 30th May, 1992
Perth
Ralph and Tomoko had suggested that, with Ruby, we should meet them in Perth and that they would take us to a famous seafood restaurant for lunch.  That seemed a splendid idea, but the only snag was that on Saturdays, buses to Perth do not run along Gradient Way.  Indeed, on Saturdays the bus service to Perth is considerably curtailed.  As both Ralph and Tomoko were working in their Perth offices that morning, to which they would have driven from their home in Warwick, there was no way that they could have taken us either.
            Ruby, optimistic as always, was sure that we would be able to get a bus.  She spent some time looking for a bus timetable, and finally found one, but we  could not decipher the symbols with which the authors of the timetable were attempting to convey information.  It could have been written in one of the aborigine languages so far as we were concerned.  Perhaps it was.
            However, Ruby was sure, that if we walked to her supermarket, and then up the highway from there and stood at the bus stop, there would be a bus to Perth every half hour.  One of her neighbours had told her that that was where she took the bus to Perth every Saturday morning.  No worries!
            We walked to the supermarket; and from there to the bus stop and waited.  There was very little traffic, occasional cars passed, but no buses.  "I think we just missed one," Ruby said. "It doesn't matter.  They'll be another one along in about twenty minutes."
            We waited twenty minutes.  We waited twenty-five minutes.  We waited half an hour.  Then, in the distance we saw what looked like a bus.  It came towards us; then, at the junction about three-hundred yards from us, it did a sharp right turn and vanished along another road.
            "Ah," said Ruby. "That will be the bus going to Perth by the other route.  I think it takes a bit longer.  No matter, we're better waiting here.  Our bus will be along soon, and we'll get there all the quicker."
            We waited, but our bus was not along soon.  After about another quarter of an hour a man came by, walking his dog.  He was clearly a local, so we asked him when the bus was likely to arrive.
            "Oh, no," he said. "You won't get a bus from here.  They don't run to Perth from here on a Saturday morning.  I'm not sure where you will get one.  I think there are buses to Perth on Saturdays, but I don't know from where.  Sorry about that. G'day." and off he went.
            Off, we went too.  We walked to the supermarket, from where I telephoned for a taxi.  One was along within ten minutes, and got us to Perth with greater comfort and greater speed than any bus; though also at greater cost.
            When we arrived at Tomoko's office, Ralph was already there.  They had been wondering what had happened to us, for we were about three-quarters of an hour later than we had originally planned: but it didn't matter that much, as they had not actually booked a table at the restaurant.  We took the lift down to the basement car-park and climbed into Ralph's car, and were soon on our way.
            The restaurant, which Ralph was sure we would love, was on the coast.  We got there fairly quickly, but as we drove up to it, it was obvious that it was closed.  It was disappointing, but not a tragedy, for there were plenty of other restaurants to choose from, though Ralph began to wonder whether all his favourites were closed on Saturday. 
            We drove round for a while, as he thought of places that might do, and then thought that they might not do, or that he knew they would not be open, but finally fetched up in South Perth at a splendid restaurant, which may have been called Cirrus, but then again, it could have been called Eros.  I am reading from the notes that I made at the time, and I ate and drank so much, that I did not make them particularly legible. 
            We sat on cane chairs at a round table on a balcony overlooking the Swan River.  I can see from a photograph taken at the time, that Hilde and Ruby had huge steaks, that Tomoko had some sort of pancake roll, and that I had kebab.  Ralph's plate is hidden by a wine bottle and glasses, but he looks happy enough, so I assume that his was good also.
            We had intended to go on that afternoon, and visit the famous market at Subiaco a suburb to the North of the estuary, but, eating and drinking took up so much of our time, that it was around five p.m. when we finally levered ourselves from our chairs and staggered back to the car; all of us, that is, apart from Tomoko, who had eaten and drunk abstemiously, as she was our driver for the journey back to Beldon.
            We were there, just after six.  Ralph and Tomoko stayed and talked for a while and then left.  It is almost unbelievable after that meal, but we did eat a little more for supper, watched TV for a while, and then, relatively early, tumbled into bed.
 
Day 12.  Sunday, 30th May, 1992
Perth and Yanchep National Park
On most days since we had arrived in Australia, we had arisen at around 9 a.m.  On this Sunday, we had to get up at 6.30 if we were to be at Mass in time.  Mass at Our Lady of the Mission Church in Camberwarra Drive, started at 8, and as we were going to walk there, we had to leave soon after 7.30.  Actually there were other masses at 9.30 and 11 a.m., and although we could have attended the former without difficulty, if we had waited for the  later mass we would probably have had to spend the rest of the day in Beldon.
            The walk was pleasant enough, it was a lovely sunny day, and I was quite impressed with the design of the church when we got there.  It is a  very modern building, standing at the top of a long flight of steps.  Inside it is very light, of a circular design that enables everyone, even in the largest  congregation possible to be fairly close to  the central altar.  I can't remember much of the sermon, though I have a suspicion that the officiating priest spoke with an Irish accent.  The singing was lusty, with the whole congregation joining in.  Hymn books were not provided, but the words of the hymns were flashed onto a screen above the altar.
            When we left the church, Ruby introduced us to Barry, one of her Australian friends, who drove us home.
            At 11.30, Ralph and Tomoko arrived to take us out for the day.  When they arrived they told Ruby that they had paid her air fare to Sydney, so that she could join us when we flew there at the end of the week.  She was quite startled by this generosity and so were we; but, of course, she was delighted.  As a widow on a pension, she cannot easily afford the flight across Australia to see her other two sons who live in Sydney.
            Ruby did not come with us on this day's expedition.  Ralph and Tomoko drove us North out of the suburbs into semi-bush, and then bush country until we arrived at Yanchep National Park, 51 kilometres north-east of Perth.  For a National Park, it seemed quite small, yet it was clearly very popular, for it was crowded with West Australians on that day, many of them making use of the coin operated barbecue stands that were dotted here and there.  The smell of cooking from so many stands made me feel quite hungry. 
            We set out to try to find some koalas, but without much success, though they do live in the park.  Finally, we did see the bottom of one Koala, up a tree, but while we were trying to photograph it, it vanished out of sight.
            we walked around the central lake, Lake McNess, which may have been artificial.  We had hoped to do the complete circuit of the Lake, which is really a rather large pond, but as Tomoko had come with stiletto  heeled shoes, that wasn't really possible.  After we'd covered about three-quarters of the circuit, we had to turn back, first waiting, whilst Ralph removed some of the mud from the heels of Tomoko's fashionable shoes.
            By now, we really were hungry, so we went into the central bar and restaurant, but decided that it wasn't really for us; so we returned to the car, and drove back the way we had come, finally stopping at a coastal resort where we found a decent restaurant where we had lunch, which for me, was lasagne.
            We then drove back to Beldon, and to Pat and Keeley's house to meet her family, whom we had not seen since their wedding in Torquay some six years before.  Since then her parents and two of her sisters with their husbands and children had moved out to Western Australia, and were living close at hand. 
            While we were there, Keeley's mother confessed to feeling unwell.  She had constant headaches, and she had an appointment for an examination at the hospital on the following day. Following that examination, she was to learn that she had cancer, and six months later she was dead.  Of course, on that day we had no inkling of that tragedy.
            At around six we were back in Ruby's house, and that evening we watched the very un-Australian 'Rumpole of the Bailey' on television, which was followed by Kevin Klein, Tracey Ulman and Joan Ploughright, in a comedy 'Love You to Death', a light-hearted treatment of a true case in America in which a wife and mother-in-law tried to kill a philandering husband
 
                                                Day 13, Monday, 1st June, 1993
Perth and the Wineries
I think, in Australia,  the 1st June was the Queen's official birthday and a public holiday.  As we do not have a public holiday on the sovereign's birthday in England, that might suggest that we are far less loyal to the monarchy than are the Queen’s subjects in Australia.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Although republican sentiment seems to be growing in Britain, particularly now that information about the matrimonial, and non-matrimonial goings on of the young royals have become public property; it is as nothing when compared with republican sentiment in Australia.   Despite the result of the recent referendum, I suspect that very  many Australians, would be delighted if their country became a republic.  The only thing that might give them pause would be the loss of that public holiday.  Australians love public holidays.  My nephews, expatriates themselves, are quite convinced that all the work in Australia is done by expatriates:  that any excuse for a day on the beach is welcomed, so why not a day off for the Queen's official birthday?  Even a republican may enjoy it.
            Whether the sovereign's birthday was the reason that offices were closed on that day, I can't be sure, perhaps it was Koala Day or Kangaroo Day or something of the sort, but, whatever the reason, my nephew, Ralph, and his wife, Tomoko, had the day off, and at 11.30 came to take us on a tour of the wineries. 
            There are scores of vineyards within a few kilometres of Perth, most producing extremely good wine, which unlike the wines of the Hunter Valley in New South Wales, do not often find their way to the wine merchants and supermarkets of Britain.  That is not because they are in any way inferior to the splendid wines of New South Wales: far from it, many of them are superior.  It is just that the Western Australians drink pretty well the entire crop themselves.
            Ralph had heard that there was an extremely good winery just outside Perth owned by an Italian-Australian family by the name of Conti.  He had not been there before, but he thought it was worth a call.  Hilde was also keen to go there, because her art teacher in Tunbridge Wells, a West Australian from Perth, had told her that she had worked for a while in a winery to the north of Perth which was owned by an Italian-Australian family, and Hilde had got it into her head that it could be the same place. We were to discover that it was not
            Conti’s winery had an extremely deserted look when we arrived, and we decided that it must be closed for the public holiday. However, Ralph thought that it was worth investigating, so he got out of the car and walked towards the building.  As he approached it, a dark, stocky man appeared and asked him what he wanted.  It was Mr Conti.  They were closed for the holiday he said, but if we intended to buy some wine, he would open up.
            We did so intend, so he did.  There followed the most enjoyable wine tasting that I have ever attended, not that I have attended all that many.  Mr Conti did not pour tiny splashes of wine into glasses for us to taste, he almost filled the glasses.  He was a delightful man, third generation Italian-Australian, looking as Italian as if he had been born in Naples or Rome, and yet, he had never left Australia.  His grandfather had started the vineyard in the nineteen twenties. 
            We stood and talked and drank, and drank and talked, for a good half hour; all except Tomoko that is.  The poor girl was doing the driving once again.  Mr Conti seemed genuinely delighted to see us; and I don't think that his delight had anything much to do with the amount of wine that we bought.  He was truly  hospitable, a really delightful man, combining the best qualities of Australia and Italy.  His wine was also first rate, and Hilde and I bought some bottles to take to our nephews in Sydney, and Ralph bought a whole crate.
            Hilde admired his orange tree which stood in the forecourt, its branches weighed down with fruit.  At once, Mr Conti rushed outside and brought in dozens of oranges for us, for which he refused any payment.
            After that delightful start to our tour of the wineries, I expected that any others that we visited would prove to be something of an anticlimax.
            From there we drove North and to the coast, to a glorious beach, almost empty of humans, but populated by hundreds, if not thousands, of sea birds; with an outcrop of rock a few metres out at sea which seemed to be a nesting place for some of the larger birds. 
            We walked a little way on the beach, though we did not go very far, as lunch had been ordered, and we were already a little late, and then we returned to the car and drove to the Vines.
            The Vines is an upmarket holiday complex, containing superb sporting facilities, swimming pools, hotels, restaurants and holiday homes.  The Japanese company that employs Tomoko owns and manages it, and, until this year had held a prestigious golf tournament there to which leading international golfers were invited.  Unfortunately, while we were in Perth, the company announced that the tournament would no longer be held, as the cost was too great.  The recession had begun to hit Australia and was even being felt in its Japanese owned companies.
            As we left the car, and were passing through an area of tennis courts, Ralph introduced us to one of his friends, a middle aged German-Australian, who came from Bavaria, whose son, who had just been practising on one of the courts, has the makings of a tennis star.  His parents had taken him away from one of the state schools, and placed him in a private school, not because the general education that he would have received in the state sector was in any way inferior, but because the private school provided much better facilities for the boy to practice tennis.
            Ralph had met this German-Australian through football.  They were both in the same team.  There is quite a lot of soccer played in the large Australian cities, though the teams are almost entirely made up of expatriates.  Some teams are composed entirely of members of a particular ethnic group, there are Croatian teams, Italian teams, and Dutch teams, though many teams are  mixed, and it was in one such that Ralph met this Bavarian.  The only national group that is seldom found in the soccer teams is that of the native Australian.  It is not that they are not keen on football, they are: but the football they are keen on, and about which they are totally mad, is Australian Rules Football, which is closely related to the Gaelic Football that is played in the Republic of Ireland.
            We talked for a little while to Ralph's friend, and then moved on to the restaurant where we had a wonderful lunch.  After that we drove to two more wineries; but, as I had suspected, after the magnificent Conti experience, they were something of a let down, despite the fact that both seemed to be better known in Perth than the Conti establishment.
            The day was nearly over.  We were driven back, not to Beldon, but to Warwick; first to the house of the German-Australians, where we were given coffee, cake, and more wine; and where the lady of the house reminded me tremendously of my sister: she had the same warmth and lively volubility,  though spoken with a German accent rather than a cockney one.
            That night we slept in Ralph and Tomoko's house in Warwick, for on the following morning they were to take us to Perth for an early start on a voyage to Rottnest Island.
 
Day 14, Tuesday, 2nd June, 1993
Rottnest Island
We awoke early.  I had slept very well, which rather surprised me, for I thought we were sleeping on Ralph and Tomoko's futon, which I had expected would be too hard for my taste.  It was month’s later when we were back in England that I learned that it had not been the futon, but another bed that we had used.  I must have been particularly unobservant, for even then I knew what a futon should look like, and the bed we slept on didn't look a bit like that.
            We had breakfast whilst watching British ITN news.  I had not realised that it is relayed by satellite all the way to Western Australia.  Ralph watches it every morning.  It was a slightly odd experience sitting in Warwick, a suburb of Perth, and watching the familiar faces of the news readers speaking from London.
            After breakfast they drove us into Perth and to the ferry terminal from where we were to board the Star Flyte, the fast modern ferry that was to take us down river to Fremantle, then out to sea for the twenty kilometre crossing to Rottnest Island.
            Rottnest Island, the name is a corruption of 'Rat's Nest', was called that after the first European to visit the island, a Dutchman, thought that the little  creatures that infest it, were rats.  They were, in fact, marsupials, Quokkas, nocturnal animals, slightly larger than the average rat, but sufficiently similar, if seen at night, for the original mistake to have been made.  The island is now a very popular holiday resort for the people of the Perth region.  My sister and my late brother-in-law had spent a short holiday there when they first came to live in Australia, and the enthusiastic description that they wrote about the place made me determined to go there if it was at all possible.
            We arrived at the terminal at 8.15, which was much too early for the cruise which was not due to start for another forty-five minutes , but went on board anyway, and sat in one of the saloons.  That was a mistake, for, though it looked a beautiful day, with the sun shining through the large saloon windows; yet, in the saloon it was quite cold.  For some time I could not get my hands warm and sat with them in my pockets.  It would have been far more sensible to have stayed out on the jetty, briskly walking up and down to keep warm until the boat was ready to start.  Alternatively, we could, perhaps, have gone out on deck: but the Star Flyte, which has something of the appearance of a Thames motor cruiser, though it is four to five times the size of any Thames cruiser, has very little deck space: and that which there is, near the stern is roofed, though with open sides, and probably not much warmer than the saloon.
            However, at 9, we were on our way, moving down river, and, once the engines were started, the saloon seemed to warm up, and after a while my hands were out of my pockets and warmed by holding a plastic beaker of coffee.
            Moving steadily, though not particularly swiftly, we passed Kings Park, then Millionaires Row, and several yacht clubs, then after passing through Fremantle harbour, we were out at sea.  It was completely calm, and we had a very easy crossing, which was a relief for Hilde who believes that she is a poor sailor.  She certainly does not enjoy the movement of any ship, but I have a strong suspicion that she is only a a poor sailor because she believes that she is one.
            At 10.30 we arrived at Rottnest Island and tied up at the jetty; listened to the purser's instruction about when the boat would return, and at what time lunch would be served at the hotel; and then went ashore.
            Rottnest is naturally lovely, and humanity has not been all that successful in its attempts to destroy that loveliness.  Thompson Bay where we landed, has golden sands, which are flanked with the holiday chalets that have been constructed by the authorities.  I don't know whether these are owned by the Federal Government, the State Government, or the Perth City Council, but whichever body of bureaucrats is responsible, the holiday homes have a monotonous regularity about their design, and after a very short time one longs for something a little different along the shore line. 
            In fairness to the bureaucrats, my sister tells me that the chalets are extremely comfortable, and the rents very reasonable.  Certainly, if I lived in Perth, the monotony of the chalet accommodation would not stop me making use of it for a break of a few days.
            We had over an hour before lunch, and by now it was a really beautiful day; so we  had a leisurely walk north along the Bay to the lighthouse, and then turned back and made for the hotel, for lunch; pausing on the way to talk to a fisherman who was standing in the shallows beside a low jetty, preparing bait, and attracting dozens of seabirds who clearly hoped to get at the bait before the fish did. 
            We got to the hotel a little early, and sat outside on the terrace drinking gin and tonic, then went inside for the buffet lunch that was included in the cost of our tickets.
            After lunch we bought tickets for a coach tour of the island, which included a visit to a spot where we would be sure to see the famous Quokkas.  One guide book claimed that they could be seen all over the Island, and that cyclists might have nasty accidents when the little creatures ran across their paths.  I can only assume that the Quokkas had read that guidebook, decided that it was a slur on their character, and had, in high dudgeon, decided not to show themselves so frequently, for the only place that we saw them was at that one spot on the coach tour.  That, in itself, is not so surprising, for, despite the claim in the guide book, they are nocturnal creatures, and would hardly be a hazard on the cycle paths in the daytime.
            The Quokkas, when we did see them, were very attractive beasts, though I did not think that they looked in the least like rats.  They balanced on their long black hind paws, with their front paws held close to their chests; their furry coats were grey. Certainly their heads and ears were a trifle rat-like, but their whole posture, as they balanced on two legs, was so different from that of a rat, that only if they had been seen from some distance would it be possible to mistake them for rats.
            These particular Quokkas had learnt that, it was worthwhile staying up in the daytime, as that way they got lots of food from tourists.  We did feed them with scraps: and it was only when we were back on the coach that our driver-guide said that we shouldn't have let them touch our fingers with their mouths because they carried certain diseases.  It would have been nice to have had that information a little earlier.
            The coach itself, reminded me of the coaches owned by The Modern Coach Company, which used to take my school on the outing to Southend before the war.  Despite the company name, the coaches owned by The Modern Coach Company, even in those days, were far from new, and neither was the Rottnest Island coach.  However, though its engine groaned at times, and changing gear seemed to be a noisy affair, it did manage to carry us up and down the hills and all over the island.
            Apart from the visit to the Quokkas, we were also taken to a gun emplacement, which contained the last of a battery of naval guns which had been mounted on the island during the Second World War, to defend Perth if the Japanese attempted to invade from the sea.  I suppose the battery was a sensible precaution, though, if I had been a Japanese Admiral or General attempting a landing, I would not have dreamed of making it in the highly populated Perth/Fremantle metropolitan area.  Western Australia has several thousand miles of empty shore, where a Japanese invasion force might have landed unopposed, with a fair likelihood of being undetected for some time, and then they could have moved overland to occupy the Darling Range overlooking  Perth.
            From a point near the gun emplacement we scrambled down to another beach, in a small cove enclosed by rocks.  Here Hilde removed her shoes and paddled in the Indian Ocean, while I took her photograph.  Then we clambered back up to the coach, which took us back to the village at the end of the tour.
            The centre of the village is rather more interesting than the shore line vista of government built chalets.  It has a number of nineteenth century buildings, including the old prison: for the first use that the colonial government had had for the island, was to turn it into a penal colony for native prisoners.  Here hundreds of aborigines who had offended against the laws proclaimed by an alien race had lived out their days in wretched servitude.  Many had died, some by suicide.  Thank God those times have passed, even though today, the percentage of aborigines in prison in Australia is far greater than their proportion in the population as a whole.
            At six we were back in Perth, from where Ralph and Tomoko drove us back to Beldon.  At our request they had booked tickets for us for the following day; another coach tour.  With them we had supper at Ruby's house, and then we were driven back to their house in Warwick, for once again we would have to start for Perth rather early in the morning.
 
Day 15, Wednesday, 3 May, 1992.
Nambung National Park and The Pinnacles
We had another good night's sleep on what I still mistakenly thought was Ralph and Tomoko's futon; then, after breakfast, they took us in to Perth, getting us there by 7.45 a.m.  Then we boarded the coach that was to take us on a day trip, 245 kilometres north of Perth, to Nambung National Park. 
            There were very few passengers on the coach that morning: two Japanese air hostesses, wearing high stiletto heels, which were most unsuitable for desert walking in the park; an extremely garrulous couple of ladies from Tasmania; a Malaysian lady, who hardly spoke during the entire trip, and a lady from Brisbane.  The driver guide was a delightful person, charming and informative, and courteous always, even to the Tasmanian couple who talked to him for most of the time whilst he was driving, which could not have been of much help to his concentration, which on that long day’s drive, needed to be good.
            Our route took us through East Perth, the birth place of the entertainer, Rolph Harris, and then by way of the Swan Valley and Guildford, into the bush.  It took about four hours on a good, but mostly empty road.  Amongst the sparse traffic that we did pass were some road trains, combinations of perhaps three large trailers being driven at speed along the road.  On the way out of Perth we had passed the depot where the trains stopped, and where they were then divided into the individual trailers before they were allowed to proceed into the urban area.
            Finally, when we were within half an hour of our destination, we turned off the tarmac onto a dirt road.  Now I was reminded of our years in Africa.  The road and the scenery looked very African.  Up ahead a huge column of smoke suggested a bush fire, and I became a little afraid that we would not be able to proceed.  In fact, our road passed right beside the blaze, with acres of bush, burning fiercely.  Our driver did not seem perturbed.  He said that he thought that it was a controlled fire which had been deliberately begun for environmental reasons.  I suppose he was right.  The papers were not, over the next few days, full of news of hundreds of square miles of bush destroyed.
            After the fire, the scenery became semi-desert, and then desert.  We stopped, we were at our destination, The Pinnacles Desert.  The Pinnacles are the most extraordinary geological formations, limestone pillars dotted about the barren desert landscape, looking as if Nature had let its teeth rot and had not bothered to have the decayed stumps removed.  As we walked amongst them our guide explained how they had emerged.  Millions of years ago, lime, leached from the sand by the rain had cemented the lower levels of the sand dunes into soft limestone.  Then, over the centuries, vegetation grew and then formed an acidic layer of soil and humus which caused a hard cape of calcite to develop over the softer limestone.  Cracks in the calcite were exploited by the plant roots, and as the softer limestone dissolved, quartz sand filled the channels that formed, and then over thousands of years, the vegetation died, the wind blew away the sand that covered the eroded limestone, leaving them standing out as the Pinnacles of today.
            I didn't at the time understand completely what he was saying, but now that I've looked again at my notes, and at the leaflet produced by the  Department of Conservation and Land Management, I think that at this moment I do understand the process: though, I'm fairly confident that within a week or so I shall have forgotten it all again.
            We walked amongst them, we stood on some of them, we took photographs of ourselves and of Pinnacles, and one of the Japanese girls nearly managed to wrack her ankle  when trying to climb onto one in her stiletto heels.  It was a beautiful day, and I think that this was one of the most spectacular experiences of the entire round the world trip.
            Then we drove to Cervantes for lunch, and that was not a spectacular experience.  Cervantes, despite its name, has nothing of the romance of Spain about it, and not much of the romance of Western Australia.  It is a Cray fishing village with about 700 inhabitants, and a collection of houses set down higgledy-piggledy  here and there.  The Cray fish boats were quite attractive, but nothing much else was. 
            We ate in a self-service café attached to a service station.  It certainly wasn't haute cuisine.  I had a packet of very salty chips and a large sausage with a cup of chilled coffee to drink.  I assumed that this was the only place where we could have eaten in that tiny village, but I was wrong.  As we drove out we passed a motel, which seemed to have a decent looking restaurant with a  drinks license.  Perhaps our driver-guide was teetotal and thought that we would all get drunk if we went there: or perhaps, and this was more likely, the tour company had some arrangement with the proprietors of the service station café.
            Our final stop in Cervantes was at a warehouse type gift shop where we could have bought souvenirs of the Pinnacles and the national park, but we did not.  Then we drove back to Perth, seeing on the way, but not able to photograph, in what looked like a meadow, a few hundred metres from the road, a large group of kangaroos leaping about.
            Tomoko was expecting us back in her office at 6 p.m., but, as we were a little early, we entered the skyscraper headquarters of a Western Australian Bank, where, on the ground floor was an exhibition of floral arrangements.  That was as spectacular, in its own way, as were the Pinnacles.  It was, I think, part of the festivities, for West Week, which was just beginning, when Western Australians celebrate their difference from all other Australians.
            Soon after we got to Tomoka's office building, Ralph arrived and they  drove us to Kings Park, from where we took some photographs of the city at night, but, alas, the results, when developed, were rather poor. They then drove us to Northbridge, where, after we had visited an extremely nice pub for drinks, Ralph left us for his evening class, and Tomoko took us to a very good Italian restaurant for our supper.  We called first at a wine merchants and bought a bottle of red wine, for the restaurant, like many others in Australia, displayed a sign, 'BYO', which means 'Bring Your Own'.
            As we entered the restaurant, there was a tremendous crash, as a display cabinet full of frozen food fell to the floor.  After the commotion that that had caused had subsided, we found seats at a table, and had a very good meal, and were joined by Ralph at the end of his class at 9.30, and shortly afterwards, we drove back to Beldon.
 
Day 16, Thursday, 4th June, 1992.
Perth
We were not up until well after nine, but, after breakfast I walked with Ruby to the nursery class where Robert and Harry spend their mornings.  It was in a modern primary school, which appeared to be very well equipped.  When the children came out, I was at once given a present of a large piece of paper containing a drawing that one of them had made.  The other child had a similar drawing for Hilde.  Back at the house we gave the drawings to Ruby to save for us, they would probably have been totally destroyed in a cargo hold if we had attempted to take them on the next seven flights and three rail journeys that we were to experience before we were home in England a month later.
            With Ruby, we walked round to the twins' home to say goodbye to Keeley, their mother.  Pat was not there, as he had been sent to Christmas Island by his employer to work on a building contract.  He worked away from home rather a lot, which was rather sad, for he loved his family, and they loved him, but in order to pay the mortgage, and also for the new swimming pool, which was being built in his back garden, he felt that it was necessary.
            We said goodbye to Keeley and the twins, and promised to be back in Perth in the not too distant future: a promise that we managed to keep a few years later, though, as a pensioner, I had to do it rather more cheaply the second time, and did not attempt another  journey round the world.  Then we went back to Ruby's, had some lunch, and took the bus into Perth for our last sight of that city.
            It was the beginning of West Week, the great celebration of West Australian regional pride, and in Forest Chase a number of exhibitions had been set up, including a large marquee where entertainers were performing.  When we looked in, a clown was attempting to amuse.  I was glad that the twins were not there, for one of them is terrified of clowns, even more than he is terrified of bearded men.  I am not terrified of clowns, but I find them remarkably unfunny, so we quickly left the marquee.  Other exhibits included the inevitable recruiting stand for the armed forces; various examples of agricultural machinery, all brightly painted, and in their pristine state, not looking in the least like the machinery that is found on working farms and sheep stations; and, a display provided by a flying school, which was an actual small aeroplane set down in front of the main post office.
            From there we walked to Northbridge and to the museum and cultural complex.  We visited again the magnificent Western Australian Art Gallery and spent some time looking again at the exhibition of aboriginal art.  Before we left I visited the Art Gallery bookshop.  I was impressed by the profusion of excellent books on display on the various facets of Australian art.  I would have loved to have bought several, but I did not want to overload our luggage, and I did not want to over-deplete my bank balance, so I left without having bought any.
            We then walked across to the Western Australian Museum that was close at hand, and I thoroughly enjoyed, though Hilde was bored by, the historic vehicle collection, which I thought was at least as good, and probably better, than the similar collection that I had seen at the Montague Motor Museum in Beaulieu Abbey in Hampshire. However, we both enjoyed our visit to another part of the museum complex, The Old Gaol, which, built in 1856 had been Perth's original prison.  Now it has been extensively restored, and contains a comprehensive exhibition illustrating the history of Perth, from the earliest days of the Swan River Colony up to the present day.
            I found particularly interesting the material relating to Western Australia's attempts to become a separate nation.  Earlier in this century the State had petitioned the Privy Council to be made independent of the rest of Australia.  The request was not granted, which, I suppose, was a wise decision; yet one can understand the feelings of West Australians on this score.  They are so far from the rest of Australia, that they are almost a separate nation.  In one particular sense they do differ from the other former colonies, in that Western Australia was not originally a convict settlement, and all the early colonists were free men and women. It is probably easier for a Western Australian to holiday in Indonesia than on the East Coast of Australia, for the air fare to Sydney is too high to make cross-continental flights an insignificant item of expenditure for the average person.
            I suspect that there is also a feeling on the part of many Western Australians that their state does not receive enough attention by the Federal Government in Canberra.  It is a vast territory into which Texas and Japan, or Western Europe could fit, yet still leave about a million square kilometres to spare.  It has tremendous reserves of untapped mineral wealth, and, although much of its land is not suitable for agricultural development, there are still large areas of good land that are not used.  No one would want a population explosion in the state, but it is surely ridiculous that the population is still below two million, three quarters of whom live in the Perth Metropolitan Area.
            When we left the Museum we went to the Italian restaurant where we had eaten on the previous night, and had coffee and pastry, then we walked back to the cultural complex, this time visiting the magnificent State Library, which contained a fine exhibition of photographs that had been taken in Fremantle Prison before it closed.  We thought that we might visit the Art Gallery again, but realised that it was about to close for the day, so, rather reluctantly, we walked back to the bus station, and took the bus back to Beldon, for our final meal in Gradient Way. 
            Ruby had produced a very good supper, and we ate, and drank Australian wine, and then Australian Champagne, then sat drinking a little whisky (not Australian), and waited for the arrival of Ralph and Tomoko who were to drive us to the airport. They arrived at around nine, and we were soon on our  way.  Ruby was flying to Sydney by a domestic flight, so Ralph drove first to the international airport to put us on the Qantas flight, and then took Ruby on to the domestic airport where she was to board the Air Australia flight.
            It was raining a little as we arrived at the airport, though nothing like as intensely as it had rained on the night that we arrived.  The Weather in Perth had been kind to us for the fortnight that we had spent there, and I for one, was rather sorry to leave.  It really is a very attractive city and has  great deal to offer the visitor.  Now when I look at some of the material that was produced by the Perth Tourist Board, I am amazed by the number of attractions in and around the city that we did not manage to see.  .
 
 
 
 
Day 17, Friday 5th June, 1993
Sydney
The flight to Sydney was the usual comfortable Qantas service: comfortable, but, as it was 3 a.m., Perth time when we landed in Sydney, although it was 5 a.m. in Sydney, by  then we were pretty tired. 
            We were met by my nephew, Billy, and, although all that I wanted was to get some sleep, and I'm sure that Hilde felt the same, that was not going to be possible for several hours, as first we had to go to the Sydney domestic airport to await the Air Australia flight that would bring Ruby to Sydney.  The plane was late, planes often seem to be, and we sat, making small talk, yawning, and drinking coffee, until it arrived.  Ruby had had a very good flight, and seemed to have made friends with a large Australian man.  She is good at making friends; but at the airport he said goodbye and went to meet his wife.
            Billy then drove us from the airport, into Sydney, across the Harbour bridge and then along to Mosman, to my nephew John's home, where we were to stay for the next week. 
            John lives in an attractive turn of the century house, which I suppose one should call a bungalow, yet it does not much look like a bungalow.  It is on one floor, with a covered, enclosed veranda or conservatory at the back.  Both John and Moira, his then partner, worked in the advertising and music industry, Moira runs her own company, and John is a commercial artist:  When he lived in England he designed, Buzby, the  bird which was used by the G.P.O. for many years.  Reflecting their advertising background, their  dining room and kitchen are decorated with a number of 1930s and 1940s American advertisements for cigarettes.  They make rather ironic reading today, now that we are aware of the health hazards of smoking, for most of them contained endorsements from famous sports-people of the day, claiming that that particular brand of cigarettes kept them healthy and made it easy for them to win their athletic events.
            Underneath the house there is space for storage: hardly a cellar, for it is totally open on one side, and there their ancient dog lived.  The windows of the house face South and South East, which means that in the Summer that house does not become unbearably hot: but June is not the summer in Sydney, and, as a consequence it was rather cold.  There may be some dwellings in Australia with central heating, though I shouldn’t think that there are many because generally the temperature is high.  Certainly John and Moira’s place had no central heating, and in Sydney’s early winter days we rather felt the lack of it.
            That was to become apparent over the next few days, we were not aware of the heating problem when we arrived and were greeted warmly by John and Moira.  They had decided to move out while we were there, to a beach house that Moira had rented, at Palm Beach, a few miles along the coast from Sydney.  However, they stayed to talk while we had breakfast, and then left, taking with them at least one of the electric fires, as the beach house was, they said, rather primitive and in need of artificial heating.
            After they had left, we went to bed at around 8 a.m.  Hilde and I, in the double bed, kept each other warm.  Ruby in a put-u-up in the dining room, could have done with some warming company.
            We slept until noon, and then rose, and having eaten some toast we set out to look at Mosman.  It seemed to be a very prosperous Sydney suburb, with good shops, and something of the atmosphere of Hampstead.  We looked at property prices in estate agents' windows, and they seemed as expensive as those in South East England.  The house prices that we had noted in Perth had been much lower.
            In the main street we called at a bank and cashed some more traveller’s cheques, and then walked down to the water front.  Despite the low temperature in the house, out of doors it was like a good day in early Summer in England.  I was rather hungry, as was Ruby, though  Hilde was not, so my sister and I called  at a very clean fish frying shop near the front and ordered fish and chips from the Austrian-Australian proprietor.  While I was waiting for them to be fried, I called at a nearby wine shop and bought a bottle of beer.
            During this time, the ladies had found a bench on the front, and there I joined them, and Ruby and I ate and I drank, and we took in the scene; which was peaceful and lovely.  In front a concrete path, and beyond it a low wall on which some children were sitting, and beyond that a sandy beech, fairly deserted, for this was not holiday time for Sydneysiders, and then the bay, with dozens of yachts riding at anchor, with land rising gently to right and left, well wooded, but with buildings scattered here and there.  There was no sign of the open sea, and at that point I was not aware of the exact position of Mosman in relation to the rest of the vast complex of Sydney waterways, but I now assume that at a point somewhere in the centre of my field of vision, was the channel that would take mariners out, beyond the headlands to the open sea.
            We  sat on for a while when we had finished eating, though Hilde was prowling up and down taking photographs.  Then I walked with her for a while along the front, and then down on the sands, before we joined Ruby and walked back to John and Moira's house.
            John had just suffered a ‘Road to Damascus’ conversion to symphonic music and opera and had begun to amass a collection of CDs, some of them produced by Moira’s company.  I spent the next hour listening to them, whilst Hilde and Ruby talked in the next room.
            At the end of the afternoon, John and Moira returned from work and, as they are both vegetarians, a vegetarian supper was cooked, which we ate with lots of good Australian wine, and talked until about 10, when they left for their beach house, and we turned in.
 
 
 
Day 18, Saturday, 6th June, 1992
Sydney
I had been worried that sleep would be difficult in this coldish house at the start of Sydney’s winter, but I should not have worried.  In John and Moira’s comfortable double bed, Hilde and I kept each other delightfully warm and we both slept soundly.  For poor Ruby it was a different matter.  She told us that she was very cold in the night.
            John called for us soon after breakfast, and drove us to the ferry stage where we purchased return tickets, which for Ruby and me were at the reduced senior citizen rate.  The ferry stage had something of the feeling of a suburban railway station, and, in a sense that was what it was, for to the people of Sydney, the extensive harbour ferry services, to some extent,  fill the role that in other, less favoured cities, would be taken by commuter trains: though, of course, they also exist in Sydney.
            We had just missed a ferry, but we did not have long to wait.  However we did not mind the delay, as it was very pleasant standing on the landing stage, with a light breeze blowing and the sun shining on this delightful Australian winter's day.  There was little activity on the water at that time of the morning, but the many yachts and launches moored close at hand were an indication of the prosperity of Australia, and in particular, of the Sydney suburb of Mosman.
            When we boarded the Ferry we sat out on deck for the journey to Circular Quay.  I had a book to read, but I did not read it, but just stared and stared.  Once we were in the centre channel of the harbour, we saw quite a lot of activity on the water: yachts, other ferries, speedboats, and one or two ships on the move. 
            Then we saw them: the two sights for which Sydney is famous throughout the World; the Harbour Bridge and The Opera House.  Both are visually stunning structures, and the fact that they are so close to each other is almost too much to take in. 
            I have read Professor Peter Hall's book, 'Great Planning Disasters' in which he points out that the judges who accepted Jorn Utzon's winning design for the building did so on the basis of a set of drawings that were in their own words 'simple to the point of being diagrammatic.' Professor Hall also points out that the building cannot be used for full-scale grand opera, because there is insufficient space backstage for the large scale sets that would be needed.  Of course, he is right.  As an opera house for Wagner and Verdi, the building is a nonsense: but thank God the judges were so foolish as to accept Jorn Utzon's inadequate design, for visually the structure is surely one of the wonders of the modern world.
            So far as I know the Harbour Bridge has received no such criticism, and, whether one views it from the water, as we did for the first time that morning, from the land, standing by The Rocks, or from a point on the bridge itself it must also be one of the wonders of the modern world.
            We landed at Circular Quay, which I was surprised to discover is not in the least bit circular.  It is an area that is teeming with life, with ferries arriving and leaving constantly, and with shops, restaurants, fast food outlets, and buskers and buskers and buskers.  I think if we had been too tired to explore that day, and had just sat on a seat and observed the bustle around us, , we would have had almost as entertaining a time.
            As we left the ferry, there seemed to be no serious check on whether we had tickets, and, for that matter what sort of tickets we held.  It occurred to me, that, as the tickets were purchased from machines, numbers of dishonest people must surely buy the cheaper senior citizens' tickets long before they had reached my venerable age, secure in the knowledge that they were unlikely to be caught in that deception.
            We strolled first towards The Rocks, a rocky ridge that contains some of the oldest buildings in Sydney.  Since the late 1960s, the whole area has been restored and is now very attractive.  We went first to the Argyle Centre, an indoor market which has been converted from a group of bond stores, and contains, on several levels, shops, galleries, bars and restaurant.  Hilde found her way at once to a gallery of aborigine art.  We spent some time in there, though we did not purchase anything.  When I could finally tear her away, we left the Centre, walked up Argyle Stairs to Cumberland Street, and then into the Garrison Church, built in the 1840s.  I found the church interesting, but not that interesting.
            From there, we walked up the hill to Observatory Park and the Sydney Observatory. Neither Hilde nor Ruby wanted to look inside, so they rested in the Sun, whilst I went in.  It is now a museum of astronomy, and many of the displays are aimed at the education of school children.  I suppose that I have not really grown up: for I found them fascinating: in particular a machine on which one pressed buttons to answer questions about the solar system.  I could have played with that for hours, congratulating myself because time and again I pressed the button for the correct answer.  Finally, I realised that if I were to fully explore the museum and play with all the displays, then I would be there until it closed, so I left that particular machine with its sequence only half completed, and joined my long-suffering women folk outside.
            We retraced our steps, went down the Argyle Stairs and through the centre into the open and a pedestrian way lined with cafés and restaurants.  We chose a seafood restaurant and had an excellent meal, though it was a little more expensive than we had anticipated.  Later we learnt that prices in the vicinity of the Rocks, can be rather high.
            After lunch, we walked back through Circular Quay to the Sydney Opera House on Bennelong Point.  We walked round the building, admiring it from the outside.  Then we went into the information section to and met the only unhelpful Australian of our entire holiday: though we did manage to get some information about a performance that we thought we might see.  As it happens we did not.
            We wanted to be back in Mosman in time for the six o'clock mass, so we returned to the Quay, boarded our Ferry, and sailed back across the harbour:  took the bus from the landing stage, and were put down almost by the church in good time for the service.
            Ruby liked the church.  I think it reminded her of some of the Catholic churches in England, it was built in late nineteenth or early twentieth century Gothic.  There are rather a lot of Catholic churches like that in England.  I used to like them when I was a child.  I don't much now.  She was rather surprised when both Hilde and I said that we preferred her modern church in Beldon.
            Back at home, well Johnny and Moira's home, we had supper, omelette and wine, then played trivial pursuits for an hour or so.  I won.  We were in bed by about 10 p.m.  It had been a good day.
 
Day 19, Sunday 7th June, 1993
Palm Beach
After breakfast Johnny picked us up in his jeep.  Actually it is a Cherokee, but Ruby always refers to it as a jeep, so we think of it as a jeep. We were to leave the city for the day, for he was to drive us to the  beach hut, 'the shack' as he called it, where he and Moira were living during the week of our visit. Moira, who had yet to arrive, was to take Ruby there in her car.
            'The shack' overlooked Whale Bay, about 30 kilometres to the North of Sydney, though we covered nearly half as much again on the drive, for he deliberately took us by a roundabout route which took in some magnificent scenery, including a large part of the Ku-ring-gai Wildflower Park. Of course, when we arrived we discovered that the shack was nothing of the sort, but the ground floor of a two storey house.
            Ground floor it may have been, but it was certainly not at ground level, for to enter it, one had to climb a steep flight of steps to reach it.  It stood high above the road, and contained a balcony from which one could look across to the Bay beyond, and to Palm Beach, a peninsula, containing, at its far end the house of Joan Sutherland, the opera singer.  The view was stunning.  Below us, was the crowded beach, and on the sea, scores of surfers, most of them wearing wet suits in recognition of the fact that it was actually winter: and to our right, the long curve of the opposite shore, with, as we looked, the sight of a seaplane flying, slightly lower than we were at that point, and beyond the peninsula, the open sea, with the occasional yacht sailing along the coast.
            Moira and Ruby had yet to arrive, so after we had inspected the shack we drove to a car park near the beach, and from there walked up a hill to a lighthouse.  This was quite a difficult walk, for the dirt track was strewn with boulders and was quite steep.  Yet, almost unbelievably, it was regularly used by vehicles, for when we reached the top we saw that there were a few houses there with cars parked beside them.
            After we had taken in the scenery, we came down again and drove back to the shack, to find  that Ruby and Moira had already arrived, and had nearly finished preparing lunch, or rather, brunch, as Moira preferred to call it.
            Whilst they were making the finishing touches to the meal, John drove me to a wine store to buy some wine, and on the way, we passed a smiling young man in a wet suit, carrying a surf board.  "That's Yahoo Perfect", said Johnny.  "I see him a lot when I'm here.  His house is quite close."  On the way back, Johnny pointed out the house.
            Yahoo Perfect, is the eccentric, but highly talented, young Australian film maker, who had somehow obtained backing for a film which was shot in Tasmania that he had written, directed, and stared in, called 'Young Einstein'; which had become in international success, enabling him, so Johnny had been told, while still in his early twenties, to retire on the profits of that one film, and spend all his time surfing.
            We ate brunch at a table on the balcony, then, as it was turning a little chilly, retreated back into the main living room and sat talking until it was nearly dark.  Then Johnny drove us back to Mosman, and after he had left us, we went out and bought a Chinese take away, ate it back at the house, and watched on television 'Born on the 4th of July', the antiwar film set partly in Vietnam. We all three thought it vastly overrated, and when it had ended we went to bed.
 
Day 20, Monday, 8th June, 1993
Sydney
The day began as usual, breakfast, coffee and a slice of toast for me; and then the walk down to the ferry, a short wait, during which an expensive looking yacht tied up, the skipper refusing my offer of help to secure a line; though his all female crew  seemed to be making a dog's dinner of it: and then the arrival of the ferry, and the glorious short passage across the harbour to Circular Quay.
            After we had disembarked from the ferry, we walked to the jetty from which the replica of the Bounty sailed daily.  This was the ship that was built for the last film of Mutiny on the Bounty, the first one that did not portray Captain Bligh as a devil, but showed him, in the sensitive portrayal by Anthony Hopkins, as he probably was, a conscientious officer, a lieutenant rather than a captain, doing a difficult job as best he knew how, but faced with a crew who hated going to sea again in that tiny ship after months of abundant sex and good food in the island  paradise that was pre-European  Tahiti.
            The ship was tied to the jetty, looking attractive, but extremely small.  That was an aspect of nautical life in historical times, that first struck me when I read the dimensions of the fleet that Columbus took to the new world.  The Santa Maria, was considerably smaller than the Bounty, and the smallest ship in his fleet, the Nina, at 40 tons, was not much bigger than the motor cruiser on which I had spent a holiday on the Norfolk Broads a few years ago.  The ancient navigators, were either very brave, or very foolish: perhaps a combination of both.
            We looked at the timetable pinned to the gate and saw that there were various cruises on offer, including dinner cruises and coffee cruises.  We decided that we would sample the latter on the following day, as it was the cheapest.
            Then leaving Ruby to browse in the Argyll Centre, Hilde and I walked to the Harbour Bridge, and after getting lost a couple of times, found the stairs that led up to the pedestrian walkway, climbed them, and walked onto the bridge.
            If there were only two reasons for coming to Sydney, the Bridge would be one of them, the other being  the Opera House.  In fact there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of reasons for coming to Sydney: but the Bridge is truly magnificent.  It is magnificent when viewed from a distance, it is magnificent when viewed close up, and, when one is on it, the views from it are also magnificent.  Of course there is a splendid view of the Opera house, but between the bridge and the Opera House, there is much else to see, the traffic on the water, and, just below the bridge, the mooring place of the Bounty, and beyond it the Rocks, the passenger terminal, then Circular Quay: and, beyond the Opera House the vast expanse of the Harbour, and the City, seemingly everywhere.
            We walked across the bridge, time after time stopping to take  photographs.  On the other side, the shore line below the bridge is strangely different, with buildings descending to the water, and having something of the appearance of a coastal city on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. 
            We could have stayed on the bridge for hours; but suddenly we were conscious of the fact that my poor sister must by then be thoroughly tired of window shopping in the Argyll Centre, so we made our way back to the agreed meeting place.  She was not there when we arrived, but turned up about fifteen minutes later.  She had not been in the least bit bored.
            By then, we were rather hungry, but we also knew that eating places on the Rocks tended to be expensive, so we walked a little way away from that area, until we found a place calling itself, with some justification, a bistro, where we ate well, and not too expensively.
            After lunch, we returned to Circular Quay, and took a boat to Darling Harbour, a short voyage that took us past some commercial shipping, with cargo vessels from many parts of the world moored at jetties for unloading and loading; and then we were at Darling Harbour itself.
            The area had been developed by the New South Wales Government in time for the Bicentennial celebrations, from what had been a down at heel warehouse district. It was  totally different from Circular Quay and the Rocks: lively, garish, and in parts, vulgar;  a sort of cross between Southend, and Montmatre, if one could imagine the latter Parisian district plonked down on the water front. 
            Where the ferry docked was a large shopping centre, but in front of it an open space, on which, a very good jazz combination made up of elderly musicians was performing.  In my experience, jazz musicians always seem to be elderly these days.  The whole area was packed with happy people, eating, drinking, watching, spending money, and doing their own things.  Across the water there seemed to be an amusement ground, with a small Ferris wheel in operation, and to one side was the National Maritime Museum, which consisted chiefly of ships moored to the jetty.  I would have liked to have visited that museum, but it was not to the taste of my ladies so I did not; but one day, if I ever return to Sydney I am determined to explore it.
            Instead, we entered the shopping mall, ascended to the upper floor and walked through the crowds, looking for somewhere where we could sit and  drink.  There were several such places, but all seemed over crowded, but finally we found a pleasant enough establishment, overlooking the water, and the jazz musicians, where we sat and drank coffee, or rather Hilde and Ruby did, I drank Irish coffee.
            When we had finished we walked out of the mall, wandered round for a little while, looking at, but not entering, The Powerhouse Museum.  I don't know why we didn't enter it. It has been described as Australia's largest and most exciting museum, but perhaps we weren't craving excitement that afternoon, or perhaps, at that point, we hadn't read that description.  Instead, we bought tickets for the monorail instead.
            This too was a recent development, that had been much criticised when it was being built, and has still not found favour with every resident of Sydney.  We loved it. The trains run on a circular route from Darling Harbour, along Pymont Street, Liverpool Street, Pitt Street, Market Street, then across the Pymont Bridge back to Darling Harbour.  The whole trip doesn't take long, but when it was over, we were almost prepared to do it again.  By the time we began it had become dark, and it was magical to glide smoothly along the single rail, above the city streets, around, beside, and sometimes through buildings.  I remembered fanciful illustrations of cities of the future, in a book that I loved before the Second World War, when I was about seven, 'The Wonder Book of Wonders'.  The view from the monorail that evening looked just like the view that a passenger would have seen in one of those cities of the future: but, of course, sixty years after that book was published, that was exactly what it was.
            It was time to return to Mosman, after a long wait, for we had just missed one, by ferry from Darling Harbour to Circular Quay; after a fairly short wait by ferry from Circular Quay; and then after no wait at all, by a bus up the hill to John and Moira's house.
            In the evening we watched on television a Michael Cain, Steve Martin film, 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels'.  Not exactly great art, but it was amusing.  Then we went to bed.
 
 
Day 21, 9th June, 1992
Sydney
 Once more by ferry into Circular Quay, where we made at once for the Rocks.  Each day as we had walked passed the Museum of Contemporary Arts we had looked longingly at it, not because it was such an attractive building, in fact it is rather pedestrian, but because the posters advertised such interesting exhibitions.  However,  knowing that contemporary art does not really appeal to Ruby, we usually  walked on.  This day, my lovely sister had realised our longings, and suggested that we visit it.  She told us that would be happy to sit outside looking at the waterfront scene.  We politely demurred, but not for very long, and soon we were inside, buying our ticket for the exhibitions.
            The first exhibition was a crushing disappointment.  It was from Germany and was art based on books: not, on the contents of books: no paintings of Alpine sanatoriums to illustrate Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain, or of drum playing dwarfs to illustrate Gunter Grass; but rather of art objects based on the shape and appearance of books.  Frankly, I thought it was dreadful, allegedly modern art almost at its worst.  Not completely at its worst, a great deal of ingenuity had gone into the construction of these ‘art’ objects, but frankly I thought that all that effort was wasted.  Yet the cost of transporting the exhibition from Germany to Australia must have been considerable, so I hope that someone appreciated it. 
            However, the next exhibition was much, much better.  Several rooms were filled with paintings, sculptures, and other art objects from New Zealand, by both Pakeha (European) and Maori artists.  That was tremendously impressive, and we both wished that we had had more time to view it. The exhibit that impressed us most was by a Maori artist and was a set of sculptures of six standing and one seated woman facing a boy. The women are distressed, for the boy has just brought bad news about the fishing fleet on which their men folk are sailing.  The seated woman has learnt that her man has been drowned.  The women are in black dresses, and the artist has written paragraphs of text in English on some of the dresses, and also on the back of the boy.  The whole composition was incredibly moving.
            Apart from that exhibit and a room decorated in the style of a traditional Maori house, there was little to show that certain exhibits were by Maoris and others by Pakeha. Nevertheless, the exhibits from both ethnic groups were of a uniformly high standard. From the information given with the exhibition, it appears that New Zealand artists have something of an inferiority complex.  They are so far from the centre of the artistic world, that they are never quite convinced that their art comes up to world standards.  Judging by this exhibition, which was, admittedly, probably of the very best work from that country, the artistic standards in New Zealand are every bit as high as those in most European countries.
            But, if we were to cruise on the Bounty, we could not waste time.  We left the gallery, found Ruby, and walked to the Bounty dock, where we paid for our tickets and went aboard.  Soon we set sail, or rather we motored out.  Unlike Lieutenant Bligh’s command, the replica has a diesel engine for windless days. 
            However, once we were away from the dock, the male passengers were asked to help hoist the sails, a task that required little nautical skill from us, but just the ability to pull hard on a rope, and let it go as soon a we were told to release it.  We were warned that if we did not do so, we were liable to get some extremely painful rope burns on the hand. I was so worried by that idea, that I let go of the rope even before the signal, so I don't suppose that I contributed much to the hoisting of the sails.
            We only saw about half a dozen crew members, though there may have been others down below.  The Captain wore a three-cornered hat, but the 18th century effect was rather spoilt by the fact that he also wore bifocals.  However, he was, at least, bearded.  He was a very nice young Dane, and could not have been much older than twenty-six, but half way through the two and a half hour voyage, he gave us an extremely interesting talk about the original Bounty, the mutiny, and the much maligned Lieutenant Bligh. It is a measure of the vast size of Sydney Harbour, that we did manage to cruise for two and a half hours without once putting out to sea and for much of that time, we were quite some way from land and from other vessels.
            Always mindful of the needs of my stomach, I was a little worried when we set off, for the voyage would take us through my usual lunch time, and I was afraid that when we disembarked, it might be difficult to get a meal if the restaurants had stopped serving lunch.  I need not have worried.  The cruise was billed as a coffee cruise, and I was expecting coffee and small biscuits.  Instead, after about an hour, crew members emerged carrying huge piles of sandwiches, scones, pots of strawberry jam, butter, and cream; along with jugs of coffee and pots of tea.  We ate and ate.  For this particular cruise there weren't as many passengers as they were expecting, so there was food for nearly twice our number.  We polished it off.  I can’t imagine what we would have been offered if we had gone on the more expensive dinner cruise: food a little more sophisticated than beef sandwiches, perhaps,  but surely hardly more filling.
            We were all three sorry when we returned to the dock.  In that relatively short time we felt that we had almost become part of the ship, and we had become friendly with some of the other passengers: in particular with a huge, purple shirted, white bearded, French Canadian and his American wife.  He was a restaurant owner from Quebec, and seemed to have done pretty well everything in his time: sailed before the mast, been a lumberjack, etc., etc. When, at the invitation of the helmsman, he took the wheel, he really did look like an 18th Century coxswain.  I am determined that if I visit Sydney again that I shall go on another of the Bounty cruises; but I know it will not be quite the same, if the ship is not graced by the presence of someone as suitably picturesque as our French-Canadian friend.
            It was late afternoon when we disembarked.  We walked by way of the business district to Hyde Park Barracks which we had particularly wanted to see, but the Barracks was about to close when we got there, so instead, we visited St Mary's Roman Catholic Cathedral, which I thought was a particularly fine example of Victorian Gothic.
            Time was running on.  We made our way back to the ferry and to Monson, where that evening, my nephew, John, took us for an excellent  meal in a Thai restaurant.
 
Day 22, Wednesday, 10th June, 1993
Sydney
Perhaps it was the enthusiasm with which we talked about the New Zealand art exhibition; perhaps it was because she was genuinely tired of traipsing about Sydney with us, but whatever the reason, Ruby decided that she would stay in and write letters. 
            We didn't argue.  We love her dearly, but our tastes are quite different, so we were quite contented  when  the two of us that set off alone for the ferry to Circular Quay that morning.  We had no particular plans, but, when  we arrived we saw for the first time, a passenger liner moored at the Ocean Terminal, so we walked in that direction, and  climbed up to the roof of the Terminal building from where we could look down on the ship. 
            It was a Russian cruise liner, still with the hammer and sickle on the side of its funnel, but flying the Russian flag at the stern instead of the red flag.  It looked very fine, and we took a number of photographs.  The name on the side was in the Cyrillic alphabet, but, on a trip to The Soviet Union nearly thirty years ago, I did teach myself to read Cyrillic capitals (I don't think I was there long enough to teach myself lower case), and with some difficulty I managed to decipher the name as, Mikhail Sholokhov.  I turned to tell the name to Hilde, but she already knew it.  She had read it on the stern where it was printed in Latin script along with the name of the home port Vladivostok.
            After about a quarter of an hour, we left the Terminal, called at American Express to cash some travellers' cheques, then made our way along George Street to the Queen Victoria Building which is a vast opulent shopping mall, nearly as old as the century, but derelict for many years until restored recently on the initiative of some Malaysian-Chinese millionaires.  Perhaps the city council will get around to putting up statues of those gentlemen, if it has not already done so, for they have certainly done Sydney a great service.
            I imagine that before it was restored it must have been an eyesore, and one that could hardly be ignored, as the building is massive and occupies an entire city block.  Now that it has been restored, it is quite stunning.  One Sydney visitors' guide quotes Pierre Cardin as saying that it is the most beautiful shopping centre in the world, and I don't think that can be  an exaggeration.  I have certainly seen nothing to compare with it.
            It has an elegance that is totally lacking in modern shopping centres, and it is not in the least bit garish.  One floor has, near its centre, a memorial, with the names of all the Australians who have been awarded the Victoria Cross.  As an arrant coward, I found that reading the names of such outstandingly brave individuals, very moving.  Most of the names were from the Great War and the Second World War, though there were some from the Boar War and from other campaigns in the days of the Empire.  I was surprised to see that four Australians had won VCs in the Vietnam War, when Australia was the only Commonwealth country to join the United States in that totally unnecessary conflict.  I was even more startled to find that Australians had won VCs in South Russia where, after the Russian Revolution, the West (Well, in the case of Australia, also the Far South) had assisted the White Russians in their  abortive  attempt to defeat the Red Army  and restore Russia to the Tsar, who by that time was dead anyway.
            It was time for lunch, and we were delighted to find that on the top gallery was an establishment called The Old Vienna Coffee House.  Out of devilment Hilde addressed one of the waitresses in German.  The girl was startled, but after Hilde reverted to English, told us that there was one Austrian waitress there who would take our order; which shortly she did, when we learnt that the proprietor was not Austrian but Chinese.  However, he had done a pretty good job in making the place  as Austrian in appearance and cuisine as he could.    We had a very pleasant meal, sitting out at the side of the gallery, from where we could look down at the scene below. I have no exact memory of what I ate, but I remember that I enjoyed it, and it may well have been an Austrian dish. It certainly was not Chinese.
            The Old Vienna Coffee House was not the only delightful surprise that the Queen Victoria Building provided.  Before the meal I went to the gents and discovered it to be the most attractive  that I had ever seen, though I don't profess to be a connoisseur of such places.  It looked as I imagine the toilet facilities in an exclusive London Club might have looked at the turn of the century, the walls with attractively decorated tiles, the cubicles and the wash basins on three sides, and the urinals placed attractively in groups of four in the centre of the floor.  I was so taken with it that I babbled about its beauty to Hilde when I emerged, and said that I would have loved to have taken a photograph in there.
            “Well go back and take one,” she commanded.
            Obediently I returned to the lavatorial palace.  But though it had been totally empty on my first visit:  this time it was filled with peeing and washing gentlemen, and I didn't have the nerve to take a photograph of any of them, nor could I aim the camera at an unoccupied urinal, as there wasn't one.  A little sadly I returned to Hilde.  Now I only have a faint memory of that delightful place.  They should sell postcards of it, but I don't suppose that they do.
            After lunch we to the Hyde Park Barracks, stopping first to look at St James' Church, a lovely, early nineteenth century building, that like the barracks, had been designed by Francis Greenway, a convict architect.
            Greenway was an interesting person.  When I first heard of the man, I thought indignantly that here was a person of  great talent, who had somehow fallen foul of brutal authorities and had been banished to New South Wales.  In fact the man, though a qualified architect, had been banished for offences for which he would have been punished today, though not by banishment.  He was a criminal who was found guilty of embezzlement, and was probably lucky to have escaped the gallows.  Once in New South Wales, he came to the attention of the governor of the colony, Lachlan Macquarie, the brilliant Scottish officer who transformed Sydney from a depressing penal settlement into the principal urban centre of a flourishing colony.  Macquarie, recognising the architectural talents of Greenway, set him to work to design a number of buildings: an effort which in time lead to his freedom, though he never returned to Britain.
            The Barracks, which had been built to house the convicts, who before its construction simply slept in the streets of the settlement, is now a museum.  The first two floors contain displays illustrating the history of the building; which was also used as a hostel for women who had been brought out to the colony, to be wives for the settlers.  For some of them it was a welcome change from destitution in Britain, but not for all: there were some poignant letters displayed from girls who were desperately unhappy to be there.
            To the casual observer, Australia seems such a successful contented place today; yet its early history is one of constant heartbreak: the heartbreak of people banished often for petty crime and of destitute women carried across the sea to be married to men who they did not know, and, perhaps, worst of all, the heartbreak of the true native Australians, the aborigines, dispossessed by the technically advanced white settlers who did not try to understand them, and often treated them like animals.
            These exhibition floors were interesting enough in their way, but it was the top floor that was most impressive. It consisted of two long rooms separated by a central corridor.  One room was laid out as a convict dormitory.  As we entered that room we heard recordings of men groaning as they tried to sleep.  The other room was almost completely bare, though at the windows were life sized cut-outs of long dead convicts.  Here too recordings were playing: voices of men talking, arguing, cursing.  It was intensely moving. Hilde began to cry, and I was almost in tears myself. Yet there was nothing there but the almost bare room and the cut outs; but it was enough. Nothing more was needed.  Anything more would have been a distraction.  I think that the person responsible for the concept was something of a genius.
            We left the Barracks at around 3.30, and, as it was too early to return to Circular Quay, we walked to the Art Gallery of New South Wales, where there was a Henry Moore exhibition that we thought that we might see.  However, when we got there, we decided that we would ignore that exhibition, for which a fee was payable, and instead look at the other exhibits, which, I think was a wise decision.  It is a very fine gallery, and in every respect but one, even better than the excellent West Australia Art Gallery in Perth.  Only the rooms containing aborigine art, though very fine, did not, in our opinion, quite reach the standard of the Perth display.
            All too soon, we heard the announcement that the gallery was closing for the day.  We left, and less than an hour later were back in Mosman.  However, that was not to be the end of our day, for our nephews had arranged that we should have a meal with them in a restaurant in Paddington.  We were to have gone in John's car, but just as we were about to drive off he found that he had a totally flat tire.  A large hook had entered the tire wall.  Perhaps it had entered by accident, perhaps someone had done it deliberately.  Whatever the reason, he couldn't drive us to the restaurant, so instead we went there by taxi.  It was a splendid place, and a splendid meal, and a fitting ending to what had probably been the best day that we had spent in Sydney so far.
 
Day 23, Thursday, 11th June, 1992.
The Blue Mountains
This was to be another splendid day, though not one that was to be spent it in Sydney.  At about 10.30, my nephew Bill, arrived to take us to the Blue Mountains for the day. Bill, who began his working life as a ship's printer with a Greek shipping line, a job that introduced him to Australia, is now the Sales Manager for New South Wales of an international cosmetics company.  Our journey to the mountains that day was made all the more interesting by the telephone calls that he kept receiving on his car phone from colleagues and subordinates about a problem that had unexpectedly arisen.  I have always had a high opinion of my nephew, but that opinion rose several notches as, in the course of about five telephone conversations as he drove up to the mountains, he took in the details of the problem, and came up with a satisfactory solution. 
            One of his salesmen used extremely strong language to express his disgust at the incompetence of another person who had got them into this fix.  When he had finished, Billy told us: “Actually, he's a very gentle person at heart.  He's going to be horrified when I tell him that my mother was in the car and listening to his blue language.”
            We were very conscious of the huge expanse of the Sydney suburbs, but at last they gave way to more rural scenery, as the car began to climb into the foothills, so then as we entered the mountain range we were finally out of range of the intrusive car phone messages.
            Finally, when we were quite high up, we stopped by the  roadside, close to a restaurant that Bill thought would do for lunch.  Unfortunately it was closed, though I can't imagine why, as the next public holiday, June 14th, was not for three days.  However, Australians do seem to be a rather laid back nation, and it may be that the restaurant had closed early to give staff the time to practise for the coming holiday rest.
            We weren't dreadfully disappointed: it was too early for lunch anyway.  We crossed the road, and descended by a footpath through woods to a scenic view.  It was magnificent.  We stood on a point over a valley, and on the other side, some miles away, was part of the mountain ridge, and it really did look faintly blue; an effect that is caused by the vapour that is released by the thousands of eucalyptus trees that cover the range.
            It was also extremely cold.  For once we felt that Australian Winter really was winter.  I was glad that I had put on a sweater and was wearing my raincoat.  If I had brought my overcoat I would have worn that, but that was ten-thousand miles away in Tunbridge Wells.
            After we had taken in the view, and our hands and ears were starting to freeze, we went back to the car, and Bill drove us to the Katoomba Scenic Railway.  This enterprise, which once served a coal mine, and which claims to be the steepest incline railway in the world, provides an almost hair raising experience.  It isn’t very long, a mere 450 metres, but over half of that, 250 metres, is the vertical drop. To be perfectly accurate, it is not completely vertical, the incline is 52 degrees, but it certainly feels vertical when one is descending in the train.
            The carriages, which are open, contain angled seats, but even so, a wire mesh is fixed above the heads of the passengers to prevent them from being ejected from their seats as the train begins the steepest incline.  Soon after the start of the journey, the train enters an 80 metre long tunnel, descending all the while; as if  dropping into the infernal regions.  Then we emerge from the tunnel, and the really steepest part of the incline is upon us.  The view is spectacular, but I'm afraid that I was too concerned with remaining in my seat to take much notice of it.  Of course the wire mesh would prevent me from falling out, but I didn't much fancy hitting my head against it, which I thought was what would happen if I were to let go.
            At the lower station we dismounted, and walked along forest trails with vegetation of a dark, almost blush green.   It could almost have been in Austria, but for the presence of so many eucalyptus trees. What was also a reminder of Austria, was the large  number of tourists.  Constantly one passed parties of Japanese, Germans, Americans, and even, some Australians.  But what the heck! We were tourists too.
            We spent about an hour on the trails, and then returned to the lower station for the journey back.  This had its own unique quality, for now the angled seats were behind the driver, and the sensation was almost that of rising in a lift, and nothing like as hair-raising as the descent had been.
            By the time we reached the top we were feeling rather hungry, so Bill drove us to Katoomba, which, though not particularly large, is the largest town in the Blue Mountains, but so far as I could see had little else to recommend it.
            However, the café place where we ate was well worth the visit.  It was more a confectionery shop than a restaurant.  With a little imagination, or with a few drinks, one could imagine that one was in a café in Vienna, apart from the fact that, so far as I can remember, there were no newspapers provided on sticks for customers to read. It served very good lunches and we ate well, but Bill had brought us there for another reason.  After we had eaten he asked if we could view the room at the back, and permission was given.  At the back of the establishment was a small ballroom, with a sprung floor, which was still used by the local citizens of an evening.  It was delightful.  I could imagine that, out of season, when the tourists had gone, the young people of Katoomba congregating there of an evening and dancing the night away.  On second thoughts, they probably don’t do anything of the sort.  The place was surely not designed for disco dancing; but for the dances of my young days: the quickstep, the waltz, the fox-trot, and for those who could do it, the exotic tango:  dances from the days when even the shyest of young men, like me, were actually allowed to put their arms round the girl and hold her close as they danced. 
            The day was drawing on when we emerged to drive back to the city.  On the way, Bill pointed out posters advertising Yule Feasts in the Blue Mountains.  In July, when there is sometimes snow on the heights, Australians who have enjoyed a Christmas sunbathing on a Sydney Beach, may drive up to the Mountains seven months later, to experience something like their idea of an English or European Christmas feast at one of the Yule feasts organised by enterprising hotel proprietors. Perhaps one day, a really radical Australian government will pass a law switching the months around so that it really is December there, when everywhere else in the world it is July.  That would surely solve the problem.
            It was dark by the time we reached Mosman.  We said goodbye to Bill, a little sadly, for we would not see him again until our next return to Australia, whenever that might be, and went indoors to a supper of bread and cheese and wine, and, until bedtime,  a game of trivial pursuits which I won.
 
Day 24, Friday, 12th June, 1992
Sydney and Fiji
We woke early, for this was to be our last morning in Australia, or, at least our last on this trip.  In the three weeks that I had spent in the country I had grown to love it: and particularly to love Sydney, which, with its glorious setting I found to be one of the most attractive cities that I have ever visited.
            Though, at my age, I am not prepared to emigrate, I think that I could live reasonably happily in Sydney.  I'm a little puzzled as to why Earls Court should be populated by so many young Australians, some of whom have come to London to enjoy the cultural experiences that it can offer, the theatre, the music, the galleries and the museums.  After just one week in Sydney I was aware that there are quite a few cultural experiences to be had in Sydney, and, even if you don't see grand opera in the Opera House, there are plenty of other splendid performances there: and, each day, the Sydney Morning Herald has half a page of theatre listings, a record of productions, which, in the course of the year includes over two-hundred separate new productions.  Why go to London?  One could, of course, go to Melbourne.  I understand that there are even more theatrical productions in that city than in Sydney.
            But we were leaving that day, without having seen a single one of those productions.  John and Moira came round, partly to wish us goodbye, and partly to see that their house had not been destroyed by John’s ancient relatives.  After they had gone, we packed.  Correction, Hilde packed: and then at 10.30 we said farewell to  my sister, Ruby, and climbed into the taxi that was to take us to the airport.  As we drove away I suddenly realised that we had never visited Bondi Beach. Indeed  the only beach that we had actually seen in Sydney was that of Mosman.  Never mind, next time we shall see Bondi.  Though I have been told that when the wind is in the wrong direction one can smell the sewage outflow that joins the Pacific there.
            We were at the airport at 11.15 a.m. and in the air at 1.15 p.m.  The aircraft was another Jumbo Jet, though not of Qantas.  Qantas shares the route to Fiji with Air Pacific, and our plane belonged to that airline.  However, the service was every bit as good as that of Qantas, the only difference was that the cabin crew were all Fijians.  By now we had become quite blasé about flying, and the fact that for the first time we were flying over the gigantic Pacific ocean hardly registered in my consciousness.  We ate, we read, we listened to music, and we slept, and, at 7 p.m., Fijian time, we landed at Nadi airport on Viti Levu, the largest island in the Fijian archipelago.
            We were quickly through customs and immigration, and as we emerged from the customs hall, Fijian girls greeted us and gave us the local equivalent of Hawaiian Leis.  So far as I can remember, these were not made of garlands of blooms, but of small sea shells. I thought that this was a charming gesture, but it was only when, on my return to England, I started to look at some of the Fijian tourist leaflets, that I realised that we had paid for that lei welcome when we made our booking.
            Included in the price of our hotel, was transport from the airport.  We were met by an official who herded us into a waiting area, for several other passengers were due to share the bus with us. Then, for some reason, he decided that as we were the first to arrive, we should have special treatment, and calling over the driver of a rather ancient Mercedes, he told him to take us to our hotel.
            On the journey, the driver suggested that we might care to use his car on the following afternoon for a sight-seeing trip.  He said that he could do it much cheaper than the tours which would be on offer at the hotel, and quoted a figure, which did seem very reasonable.  Without making any firm commitment, we did agree that we might use his car on Saturday afternoon, and he agreed to call at the hotel at that time on the  chance that we would take up his offer. Of course, that seemed to put us under some sort of quasi-moral obligation to the man, and I was fairly sure that we would be using his car on Saturday.
            The Nadi Skylodge, where we were to stay for the next three nights, seemed a very pleasant place, and it reminded me of some of the  hotels in which we had stayed when we were teaching in Malawi. At reception we changed our remaining Australian dollars into Fiji money, and cashed some traveller’s cheques, then went to our room, which was light and pleasant, where we unpacked, washed and changed. 
            Refreshed, we emerged into the Fijian night and  made for the dining room.  Immediately I was bitten by a mosquito,  but happily, that was not to happen again while we were in Fiji.
            A  bungalow building contained the dining room, which was separated from the bar by a screen.  We had a curry supper and drank beer, and whilst we were eating, the resident musicians, a quartet of well built Fijians, wearing, what may have been frangipani blossoms above their ears, began playing. I am useless when it comes to identifying flowers.  All I can really say is that were certainly not plastic blossoms. Their repertoire was not particularly Fijian, I think that the nearest that they got to the music of their native land, was a rendition of the Hawaiian War Chant, but they did play very well.
            We listened whilst we ate and drank, but though we had done nothing but sit in aircraft for most of that day, we were  very tired, so we did not remain until the end of their performance, but returned to our room and went to bed.  We could still faintly hear their music as we lay there, but it did not keep us awake.
 
Day 25, Saturday, 13th June, 1992
Fiji
We both slept well, for though we were now in the tropics, the room was delightfully cool and totally free of mosquitoes.  When we woke next morning, we both felt completely refreshed.
            After breakfast we went to reception and  looked at what excursions were on offer, and booked a trip on a schooner for the following day.  We wondered if we should also book something for Monday morning, though as we would be leaving that same afternoon we would not have all that much time to spare. We learnt that Monday was a public holiday for the Queen’s official birthday: for,  Fiji, despite the country having left the Commonwealth following a military coup, and now having the status of  an independent republic,  still kept that public holiday.  It was rather bizarre, but also quite charming. 
            We took a taxi into Nadi, the nearest town.  It proved to be an interesting place, with a splendid market, through which we wandered, not buying anything, but taking many photographs.  Most, but not all of the stall holders were Indians,  who make up slightly more than half of the population of the country; which was the reason for the military coup.  A general election had brought in a government, which, though headed by a native Fijian, had the support of the Indian community.  The commander of the Army, who like all his officers and men, was a native Fijian, had staged the coup, overthrown the government, and established a republic, and shortly afterwards the country was expelled from the Commonwealth.
            Just before we had arrived, the General had permitted an election, which, was more or less, fairly conducted, and, had managed to win it, this time with the support of a few of the Indian community. The votes of the Indians who did not support the General, had been  split between two parties, whereas the Fijians tended to vote for just one party, and, as a consequence, although slightly less numerous than the Indians, managed to keep their champion in power.
            Tension between the two communities still exists, though it remains under the surface for most of the time.  The Fijians resent the Indians, whose ancestors were brought in during the nineteenth century to work the sugar plantations, but who subsequently turned to commerce and industry
            . The Native Fijians seem to be a rather laid-back race.  Their tribes own the land, but the farmers are Indians who lease tribal land.  Few Fijians seem to be entrepreneurs, but they provide most of the workers in the hotel and tourist industry. Intermarriage between the two communities is rare, partly because of the religious differences.  Most Fijians are Christians, with the Methodist Church having the majority of adherents: very few Indians are Christians, but are very strong in their own religious beliefs, be they Hindu, or Muslim.
            From the market we wandered through the streets of the town, which reminded me a little of Lilongwe in Malawi as it used to be before Dr Banda decided to make it his capital, and seemed chiefly to be devoted to commerce, and in particular to extracting money from tourists.   We entered a large Indian owned store, and  were shown all round the building by a very energetic young assistant, who, seeing us come in, was determined that we should not leave until we had purchased some thing: but he performed that task with a fair degree of grace, and was never unpleasantly pushing. 
            As we had intended to buy presents there anyway, we were quite pleased to have his help.  We bought something for our son, Tom, and a rather nice Sarong type garment for our daughter-in-law, Michele; then, as time was moving on we left, hailed a taxi, and drove back to the hotel.
            After lunch, we went back to the information desk at reception, and were looking through the brochures, when our driver from the previous evening arrived and said that he would take us on the tour of the countryside that he had promised.  We climbed into the car, and he then told us that he would charge us $50.  As that was very nearly the price charged by the official tour, and as the previous day he had said that he would do it for $25, we got out of the car at once.  However, he then lowered his price to $35, and although that was more than he had said before, it was a lot less than the price of the official tour, so we agreed and set off.
            He drove us first into the hills, through fields of sugar cane, past Indian farmers ploughing with teams of bullocks, and past a Hindu temple, that was little more than a corrugated roofed shack and was perched incongruously beside a high tension cable that snaked downhill towards a sub power station.  The scenery, though not, perhaps, outstandingly beautiful, was extremely attractive: green hills, glimpses of the ocean in the distance, and sugar cane and sugar cane and sugar cane all around.
            He drove us into Lautoka, the second largest town in the archipelago, which seemed almost deserted at that time in the afternoon. Perhaps many of the inhabitants were at home having an afternoon siesta, so that they would be awake that evening when the sun was down  and they were able to attend the football match that was to take place there between Nadi and Suva: which Nadi was to win 5-0, but which was to lead to heated controversy and threats of legal action against Radio Fiji as that organisation had made  allegations that the match had been fixed.
            From Lautoka, we were driven to the coast and to a Fiji village which we were told was the original spot where the ancestors of the Fijians had first landed several centuries ago.  The villagers were used to tourists, and we were shown round by a Fijian lady who told us that their ancestors had originally come from Africa.  When I asked what evidence there was for that, she pointed to her fuzzy hair.  Whilst that was certainly similar to the hair grown by Africans, I think it extremely unlikely that they did come from Africa, and their hair growth is similar to that of other Melanesian peoples in that part of the Pacific, none of whom, so far as I know are thought by anthropologists to have arrived from Africa.
            The village consisted of a number of traditional bures, Fijian thatched roofed houses, which looked extremely neat and very permanent from the outside; a large Methodist church; and a few much larger bures, in particular, one that was the size of a mansion, which had been the home of the noble Fijian who had been prime minister and leader of the party that had allied with the Indians until the military coup.  Almost as large was the house of the chief, set on a raised platform on which flowers grew, and with an imposing set of whitewashed steps leading up to the entrance. From the village we walked out onto the beach, which was of sand that was almost black in colour.
            By now we felt that we had had enough  and we asked the driver to take us back to our  hotel.  This he did, but rather slowly, for we had become aware that the Mercedes was really almost clapped out.  For the last part of the journey, the red danger light on the dashboard was permanently on.  I pointed this out to the driver, but he did not seem to be in the least perturbed.  Perhaps he knew his vehicle well, but we were very relieved when we managed to get back to the hotel without the engine overheating or catching fire.  For the last half hour of the drive he had been regaled us with stories of how lazy the Fijians were, and how hard working his fellow Indians. But if he was in any way typical, that hard work did not extend to the proper maintenance of motor vehicles.
            Back at the hotel, as there was still some of the afternoon left, we changed into our swimming things and tried the pool.  It was very pleasant, refreshingly cool after the heat of the day.  I didn't learn to swim until I was an adult, and my swimming style is still only the elementary breast stroke, and I have never learnt to dive; so, when I am swimming  I can think of nothing better to do than to swim up the pool, down the pool, up the pool again, then down the pool, and so on and so on. 
            When I have had enough of that activity I try swimming under the water with my eyes open, but I can't do that for long, so I try floating for a while on my back.  When I have had enough of that, I have usually become totally bored with swimming, so I get out of the pool, partially dry myself, pick up my novel, and sit reading, which I did on this occasion.  Hilde, who is a much better swimmer than me: as is pretty well everyone I have ever known, continues in the pool for much longer, but every now and again calling to me to join her there.  A call that I managed to resist this time, as by then I was almost dry, and I didn't wish to get wet again.
            She swam for a while longer, then emerged and climbed into  the Jacuzzi, which she switched on.  I came across and watched her for a while. It looked very pleasant, but I didn't join her.  It would have meant getting wet all over again.
 
Day 26, Sunday, 14th June, 1992.
To Plantation Island
Because we  had booked the cruise, we rose fairly early, and, shortly after 8.45, were on the bus which was to take us to our embarkation point.  It was a rather ramshackle affair, and reminded me somewhat of the buses in Iraq when I was stationed there in the army in late 1945. However, ramshackle or not, it got us there in about half an hour. 
            There, was not a harbour, but a beach beside a hotel, which looked a little grander than the one in which we were staying.  Off shore were a number of craft, mainly powered passenger boats, and two sailing boats, one of which, Sea Spray, was the schooner which we were to join.
            After we had waited for a few minutes we saw a launch leaving Sea Spray. It stopped close to us, and we boarded it, an operation I managed to achieve without getting my shoes too wet, and with the ends of my trousers remaining quite dry.
            On board the schooner, we sat on benches along the side aft, of the wheel.  It was quite crowded with passengers, though not, I think, dangerously so.  Beside Hilde were a party of young Japanese, and shortly after the ship had raised anchor and we were underway, one of them suddenly realised that she no longer had her bag, which contained her money, .
and the keys of her hotel room. She and her party examined the decking near at hand, and called a crew member over to help, but they could not find the missing bag.  I don't think that it had been stolen, I suspect that she had either left it on the beach, or that it had been lost overboard when we were in the launch approaching the schooner. Everyone felt sorry for the girl, but there was little that could be done.  If it had fallen into the sea it was probably lost for ever.
            The captain and crew were Fijian, and during the passage they sang and played guitars, and as a bar was available on board, beer and other drinks flowed freely: so, for most of us, though presumably not for that poor Japanese girl,  the journey to Plantation Island was very pleasant, though it was not made under sail, but under power. The Australians and New Zealanders on board were particularly thrilled when they realised that this was the ship which was used in a popular New Zealand television series.
            Plantation Island, seemed to have no harbour, and once more we piled into the launch and were steered to the shore.  This time, the boat could not get quite so close, so we had to clamber through the surf, and though I rolled my trousers up to the knees I could not prevent them getting wet, for the sea came nearly up to my hips.  I wasn't too bothered by that, the sun was shining, and they were sure to dry.  Of course, I should have worn shorts, for we had been warned that we would have to land in that fashion, but I had not heeded the warning.
            Plantation Island was exactly how Hollywood might imagine a Pacific Island, with a gorgeous beach and palm trees.  We found beach chairs under a shelter, and sat there until lunch.  In that time I finished reading Anita Brookner's novel, 'A Closed Eye'.  Like all her novels it was beautifully written, yet somehow, I found it rather unsatisfactory.
            Lunch, which had been included in the price of the trip, we took buffet fashion in a straw roofed, open sided dining room, and after lunch we sat under a palm tree on the beach: or rather I did, while Hilde swam. 
            After a while she came out of the sea and persuaded me to strip my trousers and shirt off (I was wearing my bathing trunks underneath), and swim with her.  So for the first and last time I swam in the Pacific Ocean.  It was to be my only swim in all the forty six days of our round the world trip.
            When I came out of the water, I read some more,  though the thought of a coconut crashing down on my head from the tree above, was rather distracting.  Perhaps that is one reason why I cannot now remember what I was reading then.
            At 3.45 the launch arrived to return us to Sea Spray.  While we were waiting for it, I got talking to an American who proved to be a graduate of Washington Central State University where Eva taught, and where we were to be her guests in a week's time.  Inevitably, my trousers got wet again before I climbed into the launch, but no matter.
            The return journey to Viti Levu, was even more pleasant than the journey out.  Once again the captain and crew entertained us with their singing, and this time, they also raised the sails, turned off the motor, and we sailed back most of the way.  That was not quite so pleasant for the passengers seated on the port side, for as the ship tacked under sail, that side dipped almost into the sea, and the clothes of some of them got even more wet than had my trouser legs. Hilde and I were seated on the starboard side so we remained comparatively dry.
            Back on shore we boarded the same ramshackle bus.  I had rather hoped that we could get to mass in Nadi in the evening, but as the bus was over half an hour late starting, that was not possible. 
            On the bus I got talking to an Australian holidaymaker.  He was a railway worker, and, although he had never been to England, he sang the praises of British Rail, which he believed to be very efficient. 
            We were back at the hotel just before seven.  In the few minutes that remained of 'the happy hour' we had cocktails, then we went to our room and showered, had supper, while listening to the very good Fijian musicians and singers who performed at that time. Then, at around 9.30, for we were both very tired, we went to bed.
 
Day 27, Monday 15th June, 1992
Fiji and Honolulu
After breakfast we packed, paid our hotel bill, and then sat by the pool reading until it was time to leave.  We were joined by the only Indian member of the hotel staff.  On these islands, the tourist industry seems to be almost entirely staffed by Fijians, the Indians prefer to work in commerce. 
            She was a very pleasant girl.  She talked about her work, about her relationship with her Fijian colleagues, which seemed to be very good, despite the fact that Fijians and Indians did not seem to mix socially, and she mentioned a visit she had paid to a friend in Australia, and how she would quite like to settle down there herself one day.
            We wanted to eat something before we left for Nadi Airport, but did not want the full lunch that the hotel provided in the dining room.  Our Indian friend arranged a snack for us from the bar, and after we had eaten we set goodbye to her, and set off by taxi for the airport, getting there by 1.15. 
            As is almost always the case when we fly anywhere, we were really too early, for our plane was not due to take off until three, but Nadi has a surprisingly well appointed airport for what is, after all, a rather small country, with a population of well under a million. 
            Our plane was a jumbo jet which provided the usual excellent Qantas cabin service.  Amongst our fellow passengers were a large party of American high school students, who looked and behaved just like the stereotype of American high school students.  Two of them decided to ape the stewardesses who were giving the usual instructions on what do in an emergency.  The stewardesses took it in good part.  I think in their place I would have been rather bad tempered.
            We watched an over sentimental film, Prince of Tides, directed by and staring Barbara Streisand, who has never been one of my favourite actresses.
            During the flight we crossed the International Date Line, at which point I attempted to alter the date on my watch, but, perhaps because by then I was extremely tired, I managed to make a dog's dinner of it, and the watch stopped.  As a consequence of crossing the line,  when we landed we were back in Sunday again, having already experienced twenty four hours of that day, and over  twenty hours of Monday in Fiji.  However, 11.30 p.m., it was almost the end of Sunday in Honolulu.
            Getting out of the airport took rather longer than we had expected, for the queue before the immigration officer was lengthy, and did not move for at least ten minutes after it had formed.  I was surprised to see the captain of our air liner in the queue, and even more surprised to see that he appeared to be almost as old as me.  In time the immigration officer arrived, and after that progress was fairly fast.
            Bridge the World, the highly efficient agency, through which we had booked our flights and hotels, had been slightly less efficient in that neither they nor I had realised that we would be in Honolulu before Monday, which meant that we did not have a hotel room.  However, we took a taxi to the hotel where our room had been booked for Monday night, and they were able to let us use that  room for what was left of Sunday night.
 
 
Day 28, Still Monday 15th June, 1992,
 Waikiki
We fell asleep at once, and I slept very soundly, waking up  at what I thought was 9.30, but which turned out to be rather later according to Hilde's watch.  Mine, which I had bewitched as we crossed the Date Line, was to be out of action until we returned to England.
            On this, our first morning in the United States, we had to find somewhere to eat, for American hotels seldom supply breakfast.  We walked out in to the sunlit streets  of Waikiki and looked for an eatery, and quickly found one. 
            A couple of blocks along from our hotel was a restaurant advertising breakfast for $4.45,  That seemed a very reasonable price so we entered, paid at the cash desk and served ourselves. It was magnificent: mountains of sausages, eggs, pancakes, tomatoes, everything in fact to satisfy the most fastidious and hungry patron.  There were also dozens of different cereals, fruit juice, coffee, tea, hot chocolate, fruit, different kinds of bread, pie and cake: and no penalty if one returned to the counters and filled ones plate again and again. There was a patio to the side of the restaurant, and there we sat in the sun and ate and ate.
            We were only in Hawaii because it was a stop over between Fiji and San Francisco.  I had never particularly wished to go there.  From what I had heard of its delights they had all sounded dreadfully phoney.  Now I was beginning to realise that I  would rather enjoy my short stay on the island of Oahu.
            When we were full, in my case over full, we staggered from the restaurant and walked to the famous Waikiki Beach, which I was later to learn is not a natural beach but was constructed when some land was drained to make a canal.  Well a beach is a beach is a beach.  This  was, as all the pictures show, acres of golden sand, palm trees for shade, and people and people and people:  sunbathing on the beach, swimming in the sea or riding surf boards to the shore. Flanked by palm trees and mounted on a natural rock was a huge statue of a Polynesian, with arms outstretched in what could have been a greeting, but could just as easily have been a supplication for money.  The man who modelled the statue would have made a formidable warrior, but presumably he was not a warrior, for behind him stood a carving of a surf board.
            Skirting  the beach were numerous luxury hotels, of a rather higher quality than the comfortable but less than grand hotel in which we were staying. Out at sea were some pleasure ships, a couple designed to look like huge Polynesian canoes, though twenty to forty times larger than any real canoe, and powered by diesel engines instead of paddles. I sat and read for a while, and Hilde had her second swim in the Pacific.
            We wandered along the shoreline for a while, and found ourselves in a huge closed market selling all manner of goods, though most of them were not specifically Polynesian.  It rather reminded me of the closed market by the Rocks in Sydney; though one feature of this Waikiki market was unique.  The whole area was shaded by a single vast tree whose branches stretched the length and breath of the market.  It was one tree, but with almost enough foliage and branches to contain a small forest. 
             That afternoon we took a bus into Honolulu, where we visited a huge shopping arcade which we were told had been the largest in the world until those sneaky Canadians had built an even bigger one in Edmonton, Alberta.  I felt irrationally pleased at that news, for I had spent most of my childhood and early manhood in Edmonton, North London.
            We visited a jeweller which advertised Seiko watches.  An assistant looked at my watch and said that they could repair it, but that it would take three weeks.  I thanked them, but kept the watch, it would really have to wait until I was back in Tunbridge Wells.
            We continued through the arcade, and in Sears store Hilde bought some knickers, and we also bought birthday cards for our nephews Ralph and John. 
            I thought we might buy some compact discs, as they were relatively cheap; but decided against it when I saw that they were contained in huge packages, which would have taken up too much space in our luggage.  I gathered that the package size was designed to deter potential thieves who could not have carried the discs out of the store without being detected.
            That made some sense, though not as much sense as the British and European practice of only having empty containers displayed, which are only filled with the discs after the purchase has been made.
            When we left the shopping mall we decided that we would walk back to Waikiki, along the beach, as it was still relatively early, and the distance did not seem all that far.
            After about half an hour we reached the Hilton Hotel, where we stopped for cocktails. We sat drinking them whilst watching a hula dancing display in the grounds of the adjacent hotel.  Then a waitress asked us if we were hungry, and pointed out that at that time the hotel provides free food for people who have bought drinks.  That explained why so many people had suddenly converged on the place and were eating chicken pieces and other goodies.  We went to the food counter and filled small plates and ate, though not so much as to take away our appetite for our evening meal.  We, at least, had paid for drinks before we ate, but I  had a strong suspicion that quite a few of the people scoffing the food had not.
            In a guide to the week in Honolulu which we had picked up in our hotel, we had seen a reference to an eatery which looked interesting, so we made our way there. Moose McGillcuddy's Pub and Cafe it was called. It was full when we walked in, but our names were taken, we were directed to the bar, and told that we would be called when a table was available. 
            We drank beer in the bar upstairs, where we were clearly the oldest people there by at least twenty-five years, and after about half an hour we were told that a table was free.
            Each table was separated from the table beside it by panels at head height.  That gave a degree of privacy, which was not really necessary, yet it in no way detracted from the atmosphere of the place, which was extremely convivial. 
            We ordered our meal, and the people at the next table, hearing my voice asked where we were from.  I stood up and looked over the side screen to see a party of young Americans.  They were soldiers from the Army base, and all through the meal we were talking to each other across the screen.  I don't think that they had ever met an elderly Englishman before.  I hope that I did not disappoint them.
            The food was very good too.
            When we returned to our hotel we booked a tour of the island for the next day.
 
Day 29. Tuesday 16th June, 1992.
Around Oahu
We rose early as our tour was due to start at nine.  Hilde thought that the splendid breakfast place where we had ate yesterday was too expensive (I thought it was cheap), and, in any case as it had a fixed price we felt obliged to eat some of everything.  She thought it would make much more sense to go somewhere where items were individually priced, and be able to eat less and pay less.
            Reluctantly I fell in with that plan and we looked for somewhere else, and quickly found a breakfast establishment that seemed to fill the bill.  There we did not eat so much, yet by the time we had finished we had managed to pay rather more than the $4.45 that our massive breakfast had cost us yesterday.  I should not have been surprised, for as we left I looked up and realised that the establishment was part of one of the luxury hotels we had noticed yesterday.
            We were back at our hotel well before nine, but were still there at a quarter past nine for the mini-coach was late. When it did arrive we found ourselves seats at the back. 
            The driver/guide, a plump, smiling man, introduced himself as Cousin Gordon and told us that he was half Polynesian.  Cousin Gordon was to add enormously to the delight of the day, for he kept up an endless stream of information and jokes. 
            He told us that during the war his mother had had an affair with a soldier, who had fathered him and then left the island.  He then asked who had been in the army, and several men, including myself, put up their hands: though as we were all British, Australian, or of other foreign nationalities, it was clear that we had not been stationed in the US Army on the island.
            Gordon said that his father had been bearded, then spotting me, decided that I was his father, and for the rest of the day called me ‘Daddy’.  I went along with the deception, and tried to make witty replies to his sallies, but I don't think I ever quite achieved the level of his zaniness.
            Mind you, though Gordon was a stimulating companion for one day, I don't know that I would have enjoyed his company for long if I had had to work with him. When we returned to the vehicle after a short stop, we were parked next to another of the company’s coaches, which was full of passengers waiting for their driver.
            Gordon lent across and asked one of the passengers where the driver was.  When told that he was in the rest room, he asked if the passenger could give him a message, and said that the company had telephoned: that the driver’s medical results had now come through, and that he was to continue on the day’s tour, but on no account was he to touch any of the passengers.
            Then grinning broadly, Gordon started the engine and we drove off.
            Our excursion took us over much of Oahu, which, at 600 square miles is about four times as large as the Isle of Wight. 
            Soon after leaving Honolulu, we passed Pearl Harbour, the scene of the Japanese attack on the 7th December, 1941, which precipitated the USA into World War II.  The coach did not stop, but we could see the shape of the harbour, which looked rather smaller than I had imagined.  Gordon told us that considerable skill had been used by the Japanese pilots, who had to come in low between high hills to make their attack.
            Our first important stop was at the Waimea Falls Park on the North East Coast of the island.  The Park is a huge botanical garden, with the Falls after which it is named, its most important feature.  They are set in a heavy wooded valley, and emerge from high rocks to drop several hundred feet into the lagoon below.
            On top of the rocks stood two men, one white, one coloured, and Gordon told us that they were Olympic divers.  As we watched each, in turn, dived into the pool below: a seemingly impossible task, for the base of the rocks at the base were several feet in front of the rocks at the top, and it looked impossible that they would not crush their skulls on them when they came down.  This they did not do, and managed, seemingly to fly forward as they dived so that they were well away from the base rocks when they entered the water.
            A group of girls were prepared to provide a Hula dancing display, but as we were working to a strict time table, we could not stay to see that, but made our way back to the coach.  However, we did have time to look at the reconstruction of part of a  Hawaiian village, a small complex including the house of a high priest or chieftain, which had been built in the park, along with some Polynesian carvings.  The dwellings, struck me as being rather more primitive than the one which we visited in Fiji, though the latter, was still in use with Fijians in residence.  The buildings in Waimea Falls Park had no inhabitants, and were supposed to represent life before the arrival of the Europeans.  All the same I was surprised by the comparison, for I had always believed  that Polynesians had a much more advanced culture than did the Fijian Melanesians.  Perhaps that was not so.
            The few huts were much smaller than those we had seen in Fiji, and certainly much more primitive, with roughly thatched roofs which came down almost to ground level: in once case, with a building that was shaped a little like a Scandinavian A framed house, entirely to ground level.
            Yet the people who had lived in such dwellings had certainly not been primitive, for, as Gordon reminded us that day, Polynesians may have been the greatest navigators the world has ever known, and had arrived in the Hawaiian archipelago  before the sixth century AD, after an epic voyage of over 2000 miles  from the Marquesas Islands  without the help of any  compass.  Yet today, this great seafaring race are almost extinct.  Only 1% of the population of the islands are still Polynesian Hawaiians, though 12%, including Cousin Gordon are partly Polynesian.
            Gordon drove us to a road house, which was owned by a Canadian company, where we had lunch, and, after lunch we were driven to a memorial park, the central feature of which was a Buddhist Temple, an exact copy of temple in Japan.  Set at the base of a wooded hill, it was quite beautiful, and contained within a massive golden statue of the Buddha, seated in the lotus position.
            In front of the temple were ornamental pools containing fish which might have been carp, though my piscatorial knowledge is so scanty, that for all that I know they could have been overlarge goldfish.
            The presence of a Japanese style Buddhist temple on an island that had been attacked by the Japanese, may have seemed strange: yet today, the Japanese Hawaiians with other Asians, at 22% of the population, are the second largest ethnic group on the islands, and Buddhism the second largest religion.  Both would be the largest but for the presence of American military and naval bases on the islands, whose personnel swell the numbers of the Caucasian, Christian population, thus making them the largest ethnic group.
            From the memorial park, we drove back along the coast, and stopped above a beach from which hundreds of surfers were practising their art.  Unlike Waikiki, this was a naturally formed beach, and, I thought much more attractive; but as it was some way away from Honolulu City, not as well known, except to the world surfing fraternity, who regarded it as one of the best surfing beaches on the planet. Here we also saw the Holono Blowhole, where the action of the surf regularly forces jets of water up through hole in the rock, producing an effect similar to that of a geyser.
            The tour ended at around 4 p.m..  We were both sorry to leave Cousin Gorge, but I made straight for the hotel desk as I wanted to cash a travellers’ cheque for £50.  The hotel refused to oblige, despite the fact that I had American Express travellers’ cheques.  Unfortunately, they were in sterling, and the hotel would only accept dollar cheques.
            The desk clerk suggested I try the Hyatt Regency Hotel, and fortunately, at their exchange desk they were willing to take them.  All the same, the experience made me very apprehensive about the remaining seventeen days of our trip.  Would we find ourselves unable to change cheques on the American mainland?
            However, we had enough money for the time being, and that evening had a very pleasant meal at a restaurant which was part of the Uno One chain.
 
Day 30, Wednesday, 17th June, 1992
Last Day  in Waikiki
After breakfast I went to a bank, presented my VISA credit card, and tried to obtain money on the strength of it.  I was asked for some proof of identification, but, as I had not brought my passport with me I had none.  Hilde presented her driving licence, but as that did not contain a photograph, that too was unacceptable.
            We did not go back to the hotel for my passport, for we had enough money still to cope with the day's expenses: instead, using cash, we bought two tickets for the trolley (tramcar) which was about to begin a sight-seeing trip around Honolulu.  Actually, there are no tram lines in Honolulu, and, as a consequence, no electric trams. The sight-seeing trolley looks like an electric tram, but is propelled by either diesel fuel or petrol.
            Before we went on the trolley-car we had to check out of our hotel, which did not take too long, then leaving our luggage in a safe locked room we returned to the trolley-stop and boarded the car. 
            The whole trip was to take two and a half hours, with eighteen stops, but, provided we retained our tickets we could dismount at any of the stops if there was something of particular interest to us, and board one of the subsequent trolley-cars and resume the circuit. 
            I was tempted to do this when we passed the palace of the Hawaiian kings, in front of which stands the tall statue of the tribal chieftain, who, by conquering all the islands in the archipelago, became the first king of all Hawaii.
            This palace is the only royal palace on American soil; but though it was quite impressive from the road, it  was not so impressive as to temp us to dismount.  However, we did get off at the Bishop Museum, and spent an hour or so there.  This was the former home of a Mr Bishop and his wife, who was a princess of the Hawaiian Royal Family.  They were philanthropists, and had established a secondary school for Hawaiian girls.  This school still existed, but as there were now insufficient full blooded Hawaiian girls to fill it, entry was now open to girls with as little as one-sixteenth Hawaiian blood in their veins.
            The Bishop Museum was one of the finest that I have ever seen, with extensive displays on the ethnography and history of the islands and also of the other peoples of the Pacific, including Melanesians and Micronesians.
            When we left the Museum we boarded another trolley-car and dismounted in Chinatown.  This we found most disappointing, particularly in comparison with the last Chinatown we had seen, that of Singapore.  Everything looked extremely tacky, and after fifteen minutes we were pleased to re-board the trolley.  However we did not go all the way to the eighteenth stop but dismounted one stop earlier, and walked along Waikiki Beach to the Hilton, where we drank beer, and at the suggestion of a waitress ate fried chicken legs, or perhaps they were wings.
            We could have stayed there for some time, sampling the free food, and looking at the ground of the next hotel in the hope that there would be another display of Hula dancing.  There was not, so after about half an hour we left, and made for the Cafe Uno where we had supper, sitting by a window on the first floor, looking down at the busy scene, particularly of the many soldiers and airman on hired scooters and motor cycles who were cruising past, perhaps on the lookout for pretty girls. For some of this time it was raining heavily, but the rain did not cause any lessening in the crowds of people below, and the steady stream of riders on open scooters.
            Time was running on, so we braved the rain and made for our hotel, where we waited for the airport bus.  When it came we were the only passengers, and were at the air port by 10.30 p.m. We were there for over two hours before we could board our flight. 
            Honolulu, is an attractive place, with plenty to entertain the visitor: but its airport  has one of the ugliest departure lounges that I have ever seen.  To call it a departure lounge, is somewhat misleading.  Perhaps Departure Pit would be more appropriate.
            Our Qantas flight for San Francisco took off forty minutes after midnight, and I must have been very tired, for I was soon asleep.
 
Day 31 Thursday, 18th June, 1992
San Francisco
I was quite restored when I awoke at about 6 am, and was even more restored by the champagne that Qantas thoughtfully provided before breakfast.  It really is a splendid airline.
            We touched down at San Francisco Airport at nine, but did not get away for quite some time, as we had a long wait before we managed to get a taxi, which was more a mini bus than a limousine, with a driver who told us that he was an Israeli.  However, he knew the way, and deposited us safely at our hotel, the Mark Twain-Aston.
            It was on the edge of a rather seedy area, and we were warned that to turn right out of the entrance might be a little risky.  However, the hotel was comfortable and well managed, with a safe in each room in which we could put any valuables.  I found this vastly preferable to the more usual practice of leaving them in a safe deposit at reception; though my preference probably had much to do with that practice leading to our loss of traveller's cheques in Singapore. We were both very tired, so we lay on our beds and slept until one, then ventured out into the city to eat.
            We found a snack bar which sold excellent soup, bread and wine; then, greatly refreshed, using a street map supplied by the hotel, we set off for the bus station.
            We were both very impressed with the look of the city, but not so impressed with its lack of public toilets, which we were later to realise is a fault of many American municipalities.  Hilde was desperate to find a ladies’ so we walked into the Sheraton Hotel, where she made use of the hotel facilities, while I looked at the restaurant menu.  When she emerged, I had already decided that as we had already sampled champagne before breakfast,  we would not book a table for the $88 dollar champagne dinner.
            We were soon at the bus station, where we picked up our prepaid Amtrak return railway tickets for Eugene and Seattle.  Then we walked on to China Town, on the edge of which was a Roman Catholic church which we entered.  It seemed to have made no concessions to its Oriental neighbours, who, judging from the lack of Chinese names on the memorial plaques on the walls, did not seem to be greatly interested in it.
            San Francisco's Chinatown, which is home to the largest Chinese community outside Asia, looked much more interesting than that of Honolulu, and rather more interesting than the area of Singapore known as Chinatown, though that appellation, could, with justice be given to that entire city, as the overwhelming majority of its people are Chinese.  Chinatown has not escaped totally the pull of occidental culture; for above one eating establishment, next to the name in Chinese writing, was the letter M, signifying that it was a MacDonald's.
            We did not linger in Chinatown, , but walked on by way of North Beach, the Italian quarter, to Fisherman’s Wharf. There we found an extremely interesting shop in the Cannery containing modern objects d'art where we bought some cards. 
            As it was now quite late, we walked back to North Beach, and had supper in the San Francisco, an Italian Restaurant we had noticed on our way down to Fisherman’s Wharf. 
            The meal restored much of our energy, and we decided to return to the hotel by a circuitous route over Nobs Hill, an urban mountain.  I had first heard of that prosperous district during the war when I saw a rather silly musical film set in 19th Century San Francisco.  Certainly some of the houses which we passed looked very comfortable, but I did not see any of the mansions presented in that film.  That was probably because the film had been made in Hollywood, and the real mansions had been destroyed in the San Francisco earthquake and the fire which followed it in 1906.
            However, near the top of the hill we did look at the  Episcopalian Grace Cathedral, though only at the exterior of that building, the interior being locked.  It was a mock gothic construction, which I thought looked rather course, like a slightly mistaken copy of Notre Dame, with huge doors which were copies of Ghiberti’s Gates of Heaven doors in the Baptistery in Florence.
            In the bar of our hotel we ordered glasses of brandy which we took up to our rooms.  As night-caps, at $7.50 each, about £2.98, we thought they were rather expensive.
 
Day 32.  Friday, 19th June, 1992
San Francisco and the Wonderful World of AMTRAK
 
We had a very good breakfast in the hotel dining room, while listening to what sounded like a West Coast equivalent of Radio 3: some splendid Bach I think.   Then we booked out of the hotel, but left our luggage and valuables in the safe deposit for later collection.
     On our way into the centre of town we passed a picket line outside the Hilton Hotel, where Wilson, the state governor, was hosting a Republican, $500 a plate, fund raising lunch.   The pickets were protesting about education and welfare cuts, for the Republican state administration were heavily into Regonite-Thatcherite service cutting economics.   We talked to some of the demonstrators, expressing sympathy with them, but saying that as British visitors, we couldn't do much practical to support them.  I suppose we could have put a few dollars in their collecting boxes, but we did not.
     I was very keen to try the San Francisco cable car service, and with some difficulty we boarded a very crowded car, and managed to find seats.   I was delighted to discover that as I was a Senior Citizen (albeit a foreign one) I only had to pay $1/5c, Hilde, ten years my junior had to pay the full $2.
     The ride on the cable car was enjoyable, but at one point it was rather frightening.  Near the top of a hill, the car stopped to let down passengers, but, before anyone had time to dismount, it began sliding backwards, despite the frantic attempts of the brake man to hold it.  It rolled back through a crossing, though fortunately there were no cars coming up or down the intersection as we got there.  Just after the crossing, the brake man did manage to halt the car; and then start it again, rolling in the correct direction. 
     We dismounted near Fisherman's Wharf.  Staring at us from across the bay was Alcatraz Island.  Perhaps if our stay had been longer we would have visited that grim establishment, but as we were leaving that day we thought that there were better things to do.  Instead, we attempted to walk to Golden Gate Bridge, which we could just see in the distance, partly shrouded in mist.  It was quite pleasant walking along the waterfront, but it didn't take us too long to realise that it was a pretty silly idea for someone of my age: or for someone of Hilde's age for that matter; but we pressed on, and did not give up until we had reached the Presidio. 
     We turned inland, and rested for a while in front of the Exploratorium, the hands-on science museum, which I would have rather liked to explore, but, as that would not have interested Hilde, and as we did not have all that much spare time that day, I did not.
     Beyond the Exploratorium we found a rather nice café-snack bar where we stopped for lunch; and after lunch we decided that we had better get back to the hotel, so we walked back, and, after stopping for coffee near Fishermen's Wharf, took the cable car most of the way back hoping, for our peace of mind that it would not roll backwards at any point.  Happily it did not.
     At the hotel we picked up our luggage, then took a taxi to the Amtrak Transit Station which seemed a rather down at heel building.   
     I joined the long queue to check in our luggage, and to pick up our tickets, and just before I got to the counter was disturbed to hear the clerk telling the Texan in front of me that the train for Sacramento would be delayed for several hours. However, I decided that Sacramento must be to the south of San Francisco, and that our train, travelling north would be on time.
     Of course, I was quite wrong.  It was our train, and I learnt that it was expected to be five hours late arriving at Oakland, the station for San Francisco, which, despite its size and fame, does not have a main railway station of its own.
     I gave Hilde the sad news, but she took it quite well; suggesting that as we had a long wait before us, we should go upstairs and get something to eat in the snack bar there. 
     I thought that was a bad idea, for if the condition of the Transit Station downstairs was anything to go by, the snack bar was sure to be pretty tatty: and that it would make more sense to wait until we were in Oakland Station, and get something to eat in the station restaurant, which, I was sure, must be of higher quality.  Wrong again.
     The coach finally arrived to take us across the bridge to the rail depot in Oakland. There was no station restaurant.  There were almost no depot buildings, as the place had been almost completely destroyed in the recent earthquake.
     With the other passengers we were herded into a temporary structure, which consisted of a rectangular waiting room, furnished with hard benches, and with a counter, behind which sat bored looking Amtrak officials.  There were a few coloured posters on the walls extolling the virtues of travelling by Amtrak, and a small electronic screen across which flashed the message at intervals, that our train would not be arriving until 12 am, it had been due at 6 p.m., and that Amtrak apologised for the delay.   As compensation for our discomfort, we were offered coffee and cinnamon flavoured cookies. 
     There we sat for the next few hours.  I read part of Angela Carter's, A Night at the Circus', Hilde got out her sketch book and set to recording the scene, an activity that drew the attention of some children who stood watching, and then came closer, so that she had to stop sketching and show them the contents of the book.
     There were many children in the room, but they were all surprisingly well behaved under the circumstances.  None of them were whining, some were playing board games on the floor, and others were stretched out on the floor sleeping. The adults, on the other hand, were not so placid; many of them were complaining to the officials about the delay, though, whoever’s fault it was, it was surely not the fault of the hapless attendants in the Oakland Depot temporary waiting room. 
     Rumours were flying round as to its cause.  I heard a suggestion that the staff were protesting about pay and conditions, and were going slow as a preliminary to strike action.  That may well have been true, as a few days later there was a strike.  On the other hand, another rumour, that a mouse had been found in a dining car, and that the car had been taken out of service, and that the delay was due to the difficulty of speedily finding a replacement, was probably untrue.
     At around midnight, Hilde decided to go to the toilet (Sorry: comfort station), and returned a few minutes later to tell me that a woman was giving birth or having a miscarriage in one of the cubicles.  As she spoke two firemen and a woman with an overall marked 'Paramedic', came through the room, and entered the ladies' comfort station. They remained in there for several minutes and then emerged looking concerned, and shortly after that a male paramedic and a more senior fireman arrived.  They conferred with their colleagues for a while, then again entered the comfort station.  
     I had put down my book, and Hilde her sketch pad, and we sat fascinated by the drama being enacted just out of our sight, but before we could learn whether it had reached its conclusion, the train arrived.  It was now `1.45 am. 
     We joined the other passengers on the platform, but could not board at once, for first the passengers for Oakland had to dismount.  That took a fair amount of time, but we still had to wait, while the officials allocated compartments to various categories of passengers.  Finally with other people who were only going as far as Eugene in Oregon, we were permitted to board the train, and climb the stairs to the upper storey, where we found our seats; which, thank God, were extremely comfortable, and could recline much further than the average aircraft seat, so that once the train was on its way, we were able to get to sleep fairly easily. Unfortunately that was not for another half hour, for, although we had boarded the train at 2.30, it did not start on its way until 3 p.m..  It had been a very long day.
 
 
Day 33. Saturday, 20th June, 1992
To Eugene
Even though the reclining seats were far more comfortable than those on aircraft, I slept fitfully, waking time and again.   That may have had something to do with the fact that several passengers in the compartment were high school students returning from a Christian summer camp.  Despite their Christianity, they were not quite as quiet as I would have liked.   However, in time I did manage to fall into deeper sleep, and awoke at around 7.30, to see that we were travelling through heavily  wooded scenery with glimpses of mountains through the trees.  
     I fell asleep again for an hour, and, at 8.30 when I awoke again, Hilde was already awake, and, like myself, feeling hungry. I went for a walk and found the buffet, where I purchased sandwiches and coffee for us both.   After we had eaten we left our seats and explored other parts of the train.  We found the observation car and sat there for a while looking at the splendid scenery.  Despite the late running of the train, we were glad that we had chosen to travel on Amtrak, though that did not seem to be the case with several of our American fellow passengers, some of whom told us that they had never travelled by train before, and had no intention of ever travelling by train again.
     In the course of that day, there were several announcements over the public address system, warning travellers who had connections to other trains, that they would not be able to make them, and telling them that they should leave the train at certain locations, where Amtrak supplied coaches would take them across country by road to points where, with luck, they could board the train that they had missed.   
     We had no other connection to make, but we were worried about Jerry Dowsky, who was supposed to be meeting us at the Eugene Depot at around 11.30.   There was no possibility of the train getting there at that time, so we could only hope that he would be given accurate information when he arrived at the depot as to the time that we would be there.
     At around twelve we sat in the dining car at a table with a former US soldier and his wife, and chatted to them about Italy, where he had served, and about the American political scene.
     Our lunch, took some time to arrive.  Or rather our correct lunch took some time.  The waiter, an elderly Anglo-Saxon man, brought the wrong dishes at first.   We were not impressed, and did not tip him; though, the food itself, when we got round to eating it, was quite good.
     It was early evening, 6.45, when we finally reached Eugene.  Jerry was waiting for us, and greeted us warmly.  He had been a Peace Corps volunteer when we had first known him, and had served with us on the staff of Mtendere Secondary School in Malawi: but since then he had become a Roman Catholic, and was now Brother Jerry Dowsky, having joined the Marist Brothers, the order that had managed Mtendere Secondary School.  Now he was librarian of a Marist Brothers' Boarding School in Eugene, and had made us promise that we would visit him if we were ever in Oregon.
     He drove us to the school, and introduced us to some of his colleagues, and then, after we had showered, took us into town to a seafood restaurant, where we had a splendid meal, and where I was surprised to be given a straw with which to drink my gin and tonic aperitif.  The drink took longer to consume that way, but I did not find it so satisfying, and after half finishing it, I abandoned the straw.
     We were back at the school by 9.45, and before we retired, Hilde telephoned Eva, who would be our hostess from Monday, and told her that we would be arriving in Seatle by Amtrak.  When she learnt of the late arrival of the train, Eva suggested that if it was equally late arriving in Seatle, we should, all three, for she was meeting us there, spend the night at a hotel.  I hoped that it did not come to that.
 
Day 34, Sunday 21st June, 1992
Eugene
It was a very hot day, and by 6 p.m. the temperature had reached 950 Fahrenheit; yet we survived, with no great distress.  In the morning Jerry took us to mass before breakfast where we met some of his colleagues.  I was interested to see that in their dining room, as in the staff dining rooms of Marist Brothers Schools in Africa, the centre piece on the table was a large circular board which could be rotated to enable items to be within reach of everyone.
     We learnt that the Marist Brothers, including Jerry, would shortly be leaving the school for the order is to hand it over to a lay staff.  Jerry would be going to Massachusetts to work in a hostel for the homeless.  I think that he will be a little unhappy about moving from Oregon, for from there it is relatively easy for him to visit his elderly mother in California: but, as a member of a religious order, he accepts that he must go where the order sends him.
     After breakfast, Jerry took us by car out into the surrounding countryside.  Eugene is in the Willamette Valley, which was the final destination for the children on the Oregon Trail in a book which I read with my class some years before.  When those children arrived in the middle of the last century, it was a wild place with hostile Indian tribes, but now, it had been largely tamed.
     Our destination was the state park, a few miles away.  We stopped at a wooded camping site beside the Mackenzie River, into which Hilde descended and paddled in the shallows.  Then we drove on to look at the view, to photograph and be photographed at the Kooper Falls.  There is a photograph of the three of us with our backs to the falls, Jerry in the centre wearing a pink shirt and myself trailing from my neck my old camera case which our children always called my phallic symbol.
     The falls were lovely, but then waterfalls usually are.  They reminded me of the tall single drop fall that we had seen many years before in Northern Zambia near Mbala.  It was not so high as the Zambian Fall, and I suppose it was not quite so spectacular, yet somehow, though it may have lacked something of the grandeur of its Zambian cousin, with the gentle green of the Northern trees that lined its banks it made a much more harmonious whole.
     Later we ate lunch at a waterside table provided by the park authorities: meat rolls, salad, and dry white Oregon wine. In the late afternoon we drove back to school for supper of a Mexican flavour, which had been well cooked by Jerry.
     In the evening Jerry took us to the Hult Centre for the Performing Arts for a concert which was part of the Oregon Bach Festival: a summer festival which had been held each year since 1970 and which was of a very high standard. 
     There we heard a performance in which the chamber orchestra was accompanied by a mixed American-German Group of singers, who sang one of Bach's secular oratorios, which the composer had written in praise of one of his aristocratic patrons, The Margrave of somewhere or other, I think.
     Until then I had assumed that oratorios were always on a religious theme.  This was played and sung delightfully, light-hearted and gay, in the correct sense of that term.  I enjoyed it enormously, though my German was far too poor for me to have understood any of the text.
     Jerry admitted afterwards that it was the first time that he had attended the festival, but said that he would probably go to an event in a Catholic church the following Sunday, when as part of the festival, a mass was to be sung.
 
 
 
Day 35, Monday 22nd June, 1992
Antrak to Seattle
In the morning Jerry telephoned Amtrak, and learnt that the train would be 1¾ hours late at Eugene. After our previous experience with the railway, we were not over-surprised; but Hilde phoned Eva with the news, which meant that she would be meeting us at the Seattle station even latter than she had expected, so that our drive across the mountains to Ellensberg would probably start at around midnight.
     Jerry took us into town to the bank where we intended to change travellers’ cheques.  We were glad that he was with us, for had the cashier not known him, I doubt if we could have exchanged sterling cheques, even though they were American Express.   Presumably, in upstate Oregon they see very few foreign travellers with exotic travellers' cheques.
     Back at Jerry’s school we had lunch, said goodbye to the other Marist Brothers, who we would probably never see again, and were driven by Jerry to the station. Of course, we hope that we would see Jerry again one day, though if we do, it will not be in Eugene,  but possibly in his new post in Massachusetts.
     The train arrived, 1¾ hours late as promised, and we boarded it at 1 p.m., and it began moving at 1.10.  As on our previous Amtrak journey, for much of the time it moved extremely slowly, and occasionally it stopped for a while for no apparent reason.
     In our compartment sat an elderly lady to whom we got talking. She was sitting with her husband, and was thrilled to learn that we had travelled round the world to get to California.   She told her husband about us, but he did not take it in.  He was suffering from Alzheimer's Disease, and then asked his wife where they were going, and  why they were on that train.
     She told him that they were going to see their children.  He smiled at that, but still looked very puzzled. We realised that she was devoted to him; but that her life with him must have been very stressful.
     We reached Seattle at 9.45, which was three hours later than the expected time, but, we thought, not so late as to necessitate us travelling after midnight.   We were wrong about that.
     We could not leave the station without our luggage, and had to wait until it arrived on the airport type carousel.   The company had introduced a refinement that one does not find in airports.   A rope barrier was placed round the carousel, and only those people within the barrier were allowed to extract their luggage.  We were within the barrier, but lots of passengers were not.  Some of them called on us to extract luggage on their behalf: but the attendants would not allow that.  Everyone who tried to leave the carousel with luggage had to produce a luggage ticket to prove that they owned it.  
     A further refinement was the fact that the carousel seemed to move at twice the speed of the average airport carousel, which meant that the luggage was whizzing round at such a pace, that some people, within the barrier, seeing their own cases, were not agile enough to extract them  before they had shot past.
     All in all, we were there for two hours before we had obtained our bags, showed our luggage tickets, and were allowed to leave.  
     By then poor Eva had been waiting for five hours, but she was very forbearing and did not complain.
     We climbed into her car.  She asked me if I would drive, but I didn’t fancy attempting my first experience of driving with automatic transmission in a midnight journey across the mountains.  At that Eva did show a slight sign of distress, but she recovered and began driving us out of the city, and over the mountains on the 102 miles journey to Ellensburg. 
     We arrived at her house about three hours later, and after drinking champagne eating cherries and talking  until the early hours of the morning, we went to bed.
 
Day 36 Tuesday, 23rd June, 1992
Ellensberg
We arose at around 9.30 in the morning.  When we had arrived in the early hours we had not really taken in our surroundings; but now that we were up, we could appreciate Eva’s home.   It was  a charming modern bungalow in a quiet street, with a wealth of shrubbery to the front, and, from the dining room a view to the rear of farmland, or rather ranch land, with cattle grazing just beyond  the boundary of the garden.
            After breakfast, Eva took us for a walk into Ellensburg, which is a pleasant little town, in the centre of a wide valley between the Cascade and the Wenatchee Mountains, and with a  population of under twenty thousand during college vacations: but which has several thousand more residents during term time, for it is the seat of the Central Washington University, where, until her retirement, Eva was a professor of German.
            The town is just over a hundred years old, which probably makes it seem ancient compared with some other western settlements, but it contains very few old buildings.  However, Eva did take us to one very interesting site which was the home of two local artists, the garden and the exterior structure of which were decorated with elaborate painted images and designs including carved figures, wooden sculptured heads on plinths, sets of what might have been dyed animal tails hanging from a high frame, rectangular stone pillars with coloured decorated circles up their sides, bicycle wheels with imitation parrots suspended from their rims, and other parrots placed high up on wooden struts.  It was quite delightful, and I suspect that there was much more inside the house; but as the owners did not seem to be around, there was no way that we could go inside.
            We took several photographs of the place, then went to a store where we handed in some of our completed film for development; after which Eva drove us out of the town to the East.   Much of the countryside that we passed through seemed  semi-desert, though it was probably very suitable for cattle grazing.  We saw quite a lot of sage brush on our way: a reminder that we were in the American West, in the fabled kingdom of the cowboy. Not that we were to see any cowboys during the entire time that we were there.
            Our drive, of about thirty-five kilometres took us to the Columbia River, and to the Wanapum Dam: a stark piece of modern engineering, which is impressive, wholly necessary, yet far from beautiful. 
            We were able to enter the rooms above the dam where we saw the fish ladder and then entered a room which reminded me a little of some of the futuristic structures which I saw in the 1930s classic Alexander Korda film, ‘The Shape of Things to Come.’  It was a vast concrete gallery lit by hundreds of light fittings, and dotted with  rows of strange roaring machinery whose purpose I could not fathom, and a notice on a guard rail close to hand containing the words: ‘SAFETY is a year round job’.  Presumably the message was addressed to visitors such as us.  It could hardly have been aimed at the workers, for there was not a single worker in sight, and nor did we see any workers anywhere else on or near the dam.
            When we left the Dam we found a very interesting little museum which contained the history of the area; and, in particular of the local Wanaput Indians, a very peaceful tribe, who are now, perhaps because they were too peaceful for their own good, almost completely extinct.
            From there, Eva drove us to the Ginko Petrified Forest Museum.  There we did picnic outside and managed to get considerably soaked by a lawn sprinkler 
            After we had eaten, and our clothes had been dried by the bright sun, we tried to enter the museum, only to find that it was closed until the following day.  On the following day we did not come back to see it. Nevertheless, we did see some splendid examples of petrified trees in the vicinity.
            We drove back to Ellensburg, where we shopped in a supermarket, in particular for beer for me.  Then back in Eva’s house I slept for most of the rest of the afternoon.
            When I woke up I had a shower, and learnt from the television news that the whole work force of Amtrak had gone out on strike.   We had not planned to leave Ellensburg until the end of the week, but, if the strike lasted that long, we would have to make other arrangements for our return journey from Seattle to San Francisco.
            In the evening, we walked with Eva to the house of Jill, one of her university colleagues, who had invited us to supper in her garden.  It was a delightful evening.  Jill was a charming person, as was her other guest, Ned, a retired English professor.  He was Lebanese, and had studied Sociology under Stuart Hood, the eminent sociologist and Dean of the American University of Beirut, who had been my host in 1946, when as a young Royal Fusilier, I had attended one of his open house gatherings for allied troops.
            That evening our conversation was occasionally disturbed by sizzling noises caused by the incarceration of various flying insects which had been killed by a devise designed with that purpose in mind.  I didn’t mind; but then, I am not a flying ant or a mosquito.
 
Day 37  Wednesday 24th June, 1992.
To Mount Rainier
We had to be up early as we were going on a long drive to Mount Rainier, so I set the alarm for 6 a.m.  Or rather I thought that I did.  It rang at 2 a.m. and I had to reset it, and after that it seemed to be hours before I got to sleep again, and just a couple of seconds later when it rang at the correct time.
            I was yawning during breakfast, and I was still yawning when we got into the car at seven and began the long drive through ranch country, orchards and some deserts, before we turned West just  before Yakimo, and drove on through forests steadily rising as we entered the lower slopes of the mountains.
            Our drive was not continuous, for in several places we had to stop as the road was under repair.  At one point we were halted by a STOP/GO  sign held by an extremely pretty blond girl in blue jeans, a T-shirt, an orange safety jacket and a hard hat; who was, she told us, the wife of one of the road menders. 
            She was thrilled at my English accents, and let me take a photograph of her, but as she was in shadow, the print does not do her justice.
            We had a fair way to go after that encounter, and did not arrive at Mount Rainier until about 1.30 p.m.
            It was a lovely day, and pleasantly warm, though above us we could see the snow capped peak. 
            We sat near the visitors’ centre and had a picnic lunch before beginning up a mountain trail towards the snow line.  However, as the climb became steeper and steeper, I decided that I had done quite enough for a sixty-six year old and suggested that Hilde and Eva continue without me.
            Hilde was disgusted by my lack of enterprise: so probably was Eva though she was too polite to say so. But I let them go on, and sat on a bench in the shade where I was soon joined by a man of about my own age. 
            He was a retired worker from the Boeing aircraft plant in Seattle, and regaled me with stories of his job.  He had been in charge of the installation of toilets on jumbo jets, and had sometimes become friendly with representatives of foreign airlines who had come to the plant to inspect the aircraft.  His favourite foreigners were from British Airways and from El Al, the Israeli air line, both nationalities being very helpful in selling him at low prices, duty free booze from their stocks.
            He did not like being retired, particularly as his employers in a Regan/Thatcherite way, had insisted that he take early retirement, so that his job could be done by the young man he had trained, at a lower grade, and at a lower salary.
            When my two ladies returned, I introduced them to my new friend, then said goodbye to him, and we walked back down the mountain to the visitors’ centre, though not directly, for at Hilde’s insistence we made a number of detours along side trails to look at  interesting vegetation. 
            At the visitors’ centre we watched a film about the formation of the mountain: or rather Hilde and Eva watched it all.  I only saw part of it for I fell asleep before it ended.
            Our drive back to Ellensburg was very pleasant, though Eva managed to get lost when we first started.   Just before Yakimo, we passed a long lake, which I had not noticed on our journey up.  It reminded me of some  of the lakes that I had seen in Austria, particularly in the Saltzkamagut, though, if it had been in Austria,  nestling along its shore would have been several pretty villages.  Here there was nothing of the kind, though I think I did see a  boat in motion, so somewhere there must have been a jetty, and probably a building to go with it.
            Back in the house we drank Gin and tonic with ice whilst watching the seven to eight o’clock news on Public Service Television.   We saw an interview with Perot: I was not impressed; and a speech by Clinton; who did impress me.   I thought that in England he could have been a Liberal Democrat.  Certainly much that he said was close to Liberal Democrat policy.
            At supper we finished much of a litre bottle of wine; and, because of that; and because of my earlier generous helpings of gin and tonic; when I finally got to bed;, I felt that my bed was swaying up and down.
 
 
 
 
Day 38. Thursday 25th June, 1992
Ellensburg and Leavenworth
I had  sobered up by next morning sufficiently to telephone Amtrak after breakfast to enquire about our return journey.   I was told that the strike was still in progress, but if it continued to our departure date, we did not have to worry, as the company would fly us free of charge from Seattle to  San Francisco.   That was because we  had paid for sleepers for the return journey, which made us first class passengers.  If we had not booked sleepers, the company would not have flown us free, though, presumably we could have flown on payment of the air fare.
            The news was a relief, as we had a flight from San Francisco to catch on the day after we got there, but all the same, I rather hoped that the strike would have ended, for I was looking forward to using an Amtrak sleeping compartment.
            We walked  into Ellensburg to pick up the photos we had left for developing.  The nine sets cost $109, but I was given a  card to  obtain a free set next time I used that service. I handed another role in for developing as did Hilde, and then, Eva took us  to the  university where she had worked until her recent retirement.
            We met some of her former colleagues, and were shown around, but,  one university building probably looks very much like any other university building, so it was not a shatteringly exciting experience.   But there were interesting aspects; in particular, the  Japanese treeless and plant less rock garden, which  I believe had been given by a Japanese university.
            We saw some of the leisure facilities of the students, which did not include any bars as drinking under the age of twenty-one was illegal in Washington State.   I felt  rather sorry for the students as I remembered sitting and drinking in junior common room bars in both Oxford and York Universities, when visiting my student sons there..
            Washington Central State University was Washington Central State College, when Eva first taught there.  I remember looking it up in Tunbridge Wells Reference Library, and  reading the proud claim that the students were all from the top 90% of the intelligence range; Which seemed to suggest that only the people in the lowest 10% failed to get in.  No doubt , now that the establishment is a university,  its status has risen, though I don’t think it is in the top rank of American universities.   However, in one field, they are  world leaders: in the investigation of animal intelligence in which their researchers have taught apes, if not to actually talk, but certainly to understand much human language, and to communicate with an elaborate system of hand signals.
            After lunch,  Eva drove us North from Ellensberg and into the mountains to the village of Leavenworth.  Leavenworth could surely only exist in  America.   It had been  a prosperous saw-milling town and railway centre in the early years of this century, but it  had fallen on hard times, when the  railroad  divisional headquarters moved away in the 1920s and the saw mill was shut down.  For the next forty years the  village was poverty stricken, but then in the 1950s, the community decided that they must concentrate on attracting tourists; and they chose a unique way of doing this.   Someone had  realised that the scenery was not unlike that of the Bavarian Alps, so, in  1962, the little town decided that it must become a Bavarian Alpine Village.
            One by one its buildings were converted to look Bavarian so that by the time we visited the village, it really did look the part, with local people walking about wearing Lederhosen or dirndls.  However, they were not, and are not Bavarians, and when Hilde tried talking to them in German, no one seemed to know that language..
            Close to, there was an element of tattiness about some of the structures; as there was in the ‘authentic’ Bavarian café we entered.  The coffee was American coffee, and the cheesecake, was not really as palatable as the cheese cake I have  eaten in Austria and Bavaria.
            However, one should give them 9½ for effort.    If they hadn’t created their little Disney world in the  mountains, Leavenworth  would probably be a ghost town today.   The ruse has worked because this is America, and most Americans do not travel to Europe as there is so much to see in their own vast country.
            All the same, perhaps if I ever win the National Lottery, I will go to Bavaria, and in one of the Alpine Valleys try to create an ‘authentic’ Wild West Town.  Perhaps a place like Leavensworth had been in its heyday; with a saw mill, gambling saloons,  and brothels.  Would Bavarians flock to visit it, I wonder.
            I suppose we spent a couple of hours in ‘Bavaria’ before driving back to Ellensburg, where we  picked up our newly developed photographs, and spent much of the evening after supper, looking at them.
 
Day 39, Friday 26th June, 1992.
To the Yakimo Indian Cultural Centre
After breakfast Eva drove  us south, about 35 miles,  to Yakimo.   Actually, at the time, I was sure that she was driving  us north, but when I looked at the map I saw that I was wrong.  Clearly I do not have a very acute sense of direction.
            From Yakimo we continued a few miles further south, passing unattractive sprawling commercial and industrial sites, to Toppenish for a visit to the Yakimo Indian Nation Cultural Heritage Centre.   Actually, just as I had thought that we had been driving north, I also thought at  the time that the Heritage Centre was actually in Yakimo, on the ugly outskirts of that town.  It was only when I checked  on the Internet before writing this account that I learnt that we had actually left ‘beautiful’ Yakimo.
            We went into the  Yakimo Nation Museum, and spent an interesting few hours there.  There was a very well organised display illustrating the former way of life of the Yakimo Indians, who used to live by salmon fishing, root digging, berry picking, hunting and trading.  I was particularly taken by the size of a wigwam that was on display.   It was much larger than I had imagined; though  in the Northern  American winters it was hardly weatherproof, as there was a large opening at the top to enable the smoke from the fire to emerge. 
            Unfortunately,  the museum was  a little short on detailed information about what had happened to them in the recent past; though, I have learnt that there are now about 8,000 people who claim to be of Yakimo descent, most of whom live by farming and raising livestock.
            There was lots of information about the beliefs of the Yakimo, and several references to a Great Spirit who had appeared  to the ancestors of the tribe.   Eva asked one of the Yakimo museum attendants what form the  Great Spirit had taken and was told that it had appeared as a horse.   I suspected that the lady was making that up.  Horses did not arrive on the North American Continent  until the Europeans invaded, and the Yakimo Nation was surely much older than that.  I think it was more likely that the legend of the Great Spirit depicts it as a coyote, for there was a legendary trickster called Spilway  who is supposed to have appeared to the early  Yakimo as a coyote and taught them how to survive and live at peace with nature.
            We had a light lunch in the restaurant of the museum, and then drove back to Ellensburgh, where  we slept and read for much of the afternoon, until at  5.30  some friends Eva had invited arrived for drinks.   They were mainly members of the academic staff of the university and their spouses.  
            Professor Bacharat, a philosopher, was there with his wife, who runs a travel agency, and is one of Eva’s closest friends.   I seemed to get on very well with  Professor Bacharat, much to Eva’s surprise, for later she told us that he does  not often take to strangers.
            Later, when the other guests had left, we went with the Bacharats to a Mexican restaurant for supper.  It was a very enjoyable meal, my first. and up to now my only, experience of Mexican food.  I can’t remember exactly what we ate, but we drank lots of red wine, which I think was Californian rather than Mexican.   I may have drunk a little too much for I have a  photograph that Hilde took, showing me sitting at the table laden with food, with Mrs Bacharat at my side, who seems to be amused by something I am saying or doing.  My mouth is open, my arm is raised in a gesture, and I have an inane grin on  my face.
 
Day 40, Saturday 27th June, 1992
Seattle
We rose early.  We packed, though Hilde, as usual, did most of our packing, and we were off by nine, on the road over the mountains to Seattle.
            We  made good time, and despite stopping for coffee at  a diner high in the mountains, where the  ugliness of the building rather detracted from the beauty of the wooded mountain peaks around it; we reached the city by twelve-thirty, and  found the hotel that Mrs Bacharat had already booked for us.   We were to share a room with Eva, though I  suspect that that arrangement was really irregular for we were paying for just two people, but there was a third bed in the room which Eva used.
            After we had put our luggage in the room, we  set out to find somewhere to eat, and then to explore the city. 
            Everything was bright and clean, and altogether charming.   We were accosted by a political canvasser who hoped that we would support the  third-party presidential candidate, Ross Perot.  I told the lady that as we were British we did not have a vote; but  that if we did have a vote we would have voted Democrat.  She sighed, and then bravely smiled.
            We found a very pleasant inexpensive Italian restaurant not too far from the harbour, where we ate on the patio;; and afterwards walked down to  the Harbour and boarded a launch which took us on a harbour cruise.   At one pier we saw the fast catamaran ferries, (Or were they trimarans?) ready to carry passengers to Victoria on Vancouver Island in Canada.  If we had had time, I  would have liked to have made that trip.
            When we disembarked, we walked  to  Pioneer Square and admired the totem poles which had been erected there; and also looked at some of the interesting fine art  shops in the Grand Central Arcade, including one, whose artist owner seemed to have a fixation for penises.   Every picture showed well endowed gentlemen with their equipment prominently displayed.
            Just before dusk we  visited the Seattle Centre and ascended the  Space  Needle, from where, as we drank cocktails,  we had a magnificent view of the  harbour,  the city and the mountains beyond.  
            When we descended we looked for a Lebanese Restaurant  that Eva knew, but when we found it, it turned out to  be closed: so instead, we ate extremely well at Jack O’Shaunesssy’s
 
Day 41. Sunday 28th June, 1992
Amtrak again
Breakfast  was  included in the price of the room, or rather breakfast for the two people who had booked it.  As we were three, I thought one of us  might have to go hungry; however, I was wrong.   Breakfast wasn’t so much served, as available for anyone who took it in a room on the ground floor, looking out onto the city.
            It  was chiefly rolls, with butter and jam or marmalade; with coffee to drink.   There was far more than the number eating could  possibly cope with, so it would not have mattered if there had been a  dozen of us, rather than the one illegal extra.
            After we had eaten, we took our cases down to the car; and, having paid our bill, were driven by Eva to the Amtrak depot.   It was the place to which we had arrived seven days before, and in the daylight, it looked even less attractive than it had that night. It  was little more than a combined waiting room and booking office.   Our train was not due for some time, and though Eva was prepared to wait with us until it arrived, that seemed an unnecessary penance for her; and we managed to persuade her not to stay all that time; so we made our farewells.
            Our wait was longer than we had expected, for the express was one and a half hours late arriving.    We  occupied  ourselves with reading, though in my case, with a degree of desperation, for I was down to my last novel, and knew that I would finish that before our  journey ended.  However, I consoled myself with the thought that included in the price of our sleeper compartment was a newspaper which I would receive on the following morning.
            We were shown our compartment by Gregory, the sleeping car attendant, and were quite impressed.   It was small, but it had comfortable seats, which in the evening Gregory would convert into two bunks.
            We settled ourselves in our seats and sat looking at the depot and waiting for the train to  start, which finally it did, leaving Seattle at little more than walking pace, though in time it speeded up a little.
            Within about half an hour I had finished  my book, so I just sat there looking at the Washington State scenery, which shortly became rather damp as the skies became grey and rain began to fall.   The heat wave that we had enjoyed in Seattle seemed to have ended.
            Having our own compartment was nice, but it  did mean that we did not meet any of  our fellow travellers until we  left the compartment and ascended to the main deck, and to the dining car where we had lunch, which was as good as the food we had eaten on our journey North.  Even though Amtrak seemed to suffer innumerable delays, at least its carriages  was comfortable and its catering facilities were excellent.   If one was not in a hurry, and we were not, it was a very pleasant way to travel.
            We did not go back to our compartment when we had finished eating, but wandered along to the observation car and viewed the scenery sliding by.  We stayed up on the top deck for most of the rest of the day, only returning to our compartment after our evening meal to find that Gregory had already laid out our bunks.
            Hilde took the  lower bunk.  I joined her there, and we made love  before  I swung myself up to the top bunk: a slightly difficult process as I did not discover the steps provided for that  purpose until I swung down  the following morning..
            I slept almost at once.
 
 
Day 42. Monday 29th June, 1992
San Francisco
I awoke at around 6 a.m., and lay for several minutes. in the upper bunk enjoying the motion of the train over the tracks.   At 6.15, I decided that I should make a move and  manoeuvred myself with considerable difficulty out of the bunk and down to the floor of the compartment. There was some sort of ladder by which I should have descended, but I had not found it, so I just had to swing down, which was not easy.
            I could not find my spectacles, but went to find the washroom without them with the hope that Hilde would find them during my absence.    When I got to the washrooms I found them all locked  because they were out of order, and Gregory, the sleeping car attendant, attempting to explain that to an elderly lady who was standing there..  Clearly she had not taken in that message for she did not move but just remained standing by the door.  I repeated Gregory’s message to her.  She smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry, dear.  I can’t hear you, I’m a trifle deaf.”   I shouted the message so loudly that I thought the whole train would hear.  Apparently it did get through to her for she muttered  “Drat it,” and went back to her compartment.  I walked through to the next compartment, where, fortunately, the toilets were working, though not particularly efficiently.   The hot water tap emitted cold water, and the sink stopper did not fit, so that the cold water with which  I had filled the basin, disappeared before I had finished washing. I managed a sort of cat lick of a wash, then went back to our  compartment.
            Hilde had not found my glasses, so I put on my second pair and asked Gregory to look for the missing pair when  he turned the beds back into seats.
            I ate a very hearty breakfast, two eggs, fried potatoes, sausage, toast and coffee.
            Back in our  compartment the beds had been removed, but there was no sign of my glasses.  I rang the bell for Gregory, but he  was clearly busy elsewhere and did not appear, so I looked for them for the third time in my bag.  This time I found them, so I turned off the bell.
            The train reached Chico at 9.05.   As it had been due to arrive there at 3.45 a.m., that meant that we were over five hours late, so we were not going to have  as much time to enjoy  San Francisco today as we had hoped..
            The Irish American voice of Patrick, the bar tender came over the public address system, offering various delights including Bloody Mary’s at under $3.   He also promised that at the rate we were travelling we had a reasonable chance of finishing our journey before the end of June..
            Then, about half an hour after the next stop at Marysville, the P.A. System announced  that passengers who had hoped to make connections to other trains would have to dismount when we got to Sacramenta, and from there  would be taken across country by Amtrak buses to make their connections on time.  What a way to run a railway!
            I had been dreadfully frustrated all morning because I  had finished reading my last novel, and  had nothing to read.  However, we arrived in Sacramenta at 11.25, five hours and seventeen minutes late, and,  at that point we picked up the newspapers which we should have had for several hours, and I was able to begin reading again.
            I had almost finished the paper when we arrived in Oakland, five and a half hours late.
            We booked in at our hotel, and then made for Union Square, and, after changing some travellers’ cheques,  took the trolley, which  at that point looked rather like an underground  train, particularly as it was underground where we boarded it.  It started on its journey  with several carriages joined together train fashion, however, before we reached our destination it had shed several of them, and looked  much more like a  conventional tram.
            We got off at 16th Avenue in pouring rain, and  walked, or rather ran to  the Mission San Francisco De Asis, the Mission Dolores, one of the oldest buildings in San Francisco which was opened in 1776 by Spanish missionaries.  I’d  like to pretend that I took in all its features, but, to tell the truth, I was so wet, that I was chiefly concerned with just being out of the rain.
            I suppose we were in the church for about half an hour, but when we came out it was still raining, and, by the  time that we got back to the hotel we were both extremely wet.   However, the rain had eased  up somewhat by the time we went out again at 7.30, looking for somewhere to eat.  
            We found a place in Geary Street, a large pub-like establishment with a self service counter. The place was named after a famous Irish American baseball player of whom we had not heard, and was full or baseball memorabilia and many photos of the great  man.  There were also  large screens showing video images of a baseball match, though whether it was one  in which the Irish American had starred we could not tell. There was a lively atmosphere in the place and all the tables were full.  At one sat a lady who was the spitting image of the thin actress painted many times by Toulouse Lautrec.  
            We ate and drank well, probably rather more than was wise and after our meal ordered brandy, which we drank sitting in an alcove beside a piano which was being played by an excellent lady pianist and singer, who encouraged other people to sing.  I was tempted to give a solo, but did not.   We sat drinking and listening for about two hours, before we decided to brave the rain again; though when we got  outside we found that the rain had stopped.  Back in the hotel we drank night-caps in the bar before going up to bed.  All things considered, and despite the rain, it was a marvellous evening.
 
 
Day 43,   Tuesday 30th June 1992.
To New York
We were up quite early for we were to leave the hotel at nine on the shuttle bus for the airport.   
            At the airport check in  our tickets were examined  by a rather nervous young official, who was, I imagine, in training, for he frequently consulted colleagues about the correct procedure.   I wondered whether he was going to put us on the wrong plane; but happily, he did not.
            As so often on our journeys we had arrived at the airport far too early for our flight which was not due to leave until 1206.   I did not have much to read, so I spent most of that time looking at the departure  indicators, at the  planes outside on the tarmac, and at the to-ing and fro-ing  of an excitable group of middle aged Americans (or perhaps they were Canadians) waiting for a flight to Edmonton, Alberta.
            When we did finally take off, our destination was Denver, where we were to change planes for the journey on to New York.    Alas, we had finally said goodbye to that wonderful Australian airline, Qantas, and from now on would be travelling on Continental, which we felt to be a vastly inferior airline.   Apart from the fact that there was no information screen in the cabin, the information coming over the PA system could have been in Double Dutch for the sense that I made of it: and, to cap it all, there was no free booze.  All drinks had to be paid for.
            We had about an hour’s wait in Denver, and then boarded our second Continental  flight which reached La Guardia Airport at around  10 p.m. New York Time.   Though this was the eighth flight we had taken over the past six weeks,  the sight of the lights of  Manhattan as we descended  were incredibly thrilling for both of us.  Though now I think of it, as La Guardia Airport is not in   Manhattan, it is just possible that the lights we saw were those of Brooklyn or the Bronx.
            As this had been an internal flight, we  were not burdened by immigration or customs officials, and  once we had collected our luggage we were outside the terminal building.    We had hardly had time to discover how we could get to our hotel, when we were accosted by a huge black man who asked us if we wanted a taxi.  Without waiting for my answer he told me that he could take us to our hotel for $35.   I had no idea what the going rate was; but we were both pretty tired by then,  so I agreed.
            The man  began to lead us through the large car park, but as he made no attempt to help us with our baggage I became rather  uneasy.   My unease was intensified when we reached a large car, which did not look in the least like a taxi.  The boot was opened, and the ‘taxi driver’ for the first time took my case from me.
            At that point someone said:  “What do you think you are doing?  You’re not a licensed driver.”  
            It was a New York Port Authority policeman.  
            The driver attempted to bluster, but while he was blustering I removed my case  from where he had placed it in the boot. 
            The policeman turned to us,  and with a slightly contemptuous manner told us that we  had been very foolish.  We should have joined the queue at one of the official taxi ranks.   He also told us that  the fare to New York should not have been more than $25.
            We left the two of them with the policeman writing something in his note book, and the driver looking, if anything, rather smaller than he had appeared when he first accosted us.
            We found a taxi-rank and quickly caught a real taxi,  driven by another Afro-American, but who only charged us $12.50.   We were at our hotel in Madison Avenue a little before midnight.   It was large and comfortable, though, unfortunately, at that time of  night the bar was closed.
            I think our room was on the twentieth floor.   We were quick to get into bed, but sleep took some time in coming, as we were disturbed by the air conditioning system making the most dreadful noise for a good twenty minutes until is suddenly stopped.  However, at that point our toilet decided to be vocal, and gurgled and thudded for several more minutes, until Hilde, in desperation, got up,   and moved the toilet lever slightly up, intending to flush it. 
            I’m glad that she did not flush it, for then the noise would  have continued..   As it was the slight movement of the lever silenced it at once, and we were both able to sleep.
 
Day 44,  Wednesday 1st July, 1992.
New York City
After the day we had had, during which we had done almost nothing  apart from sitting in transit lounges and on aircraft, and eating aircraft food, all activities which can be very tiring, we did not wake up until gone nine.
            We got up, and I switched on the television to get some news, but could not find a station that provided any, though I spent a few minutes channel hopping and not much liking what I found.  I then looked out of the window, and saw, a short distance away, the Empire State Building.
            We went down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, during which we ate far too much, and paid what we thought was rather a lot, $19, which was over £10 in English money;  though, writing this some years after the event, I realise that it was not all that high.
            After breakfast we left the hotel and made for the great skyscraper that I had seen from our window.  Naturally we took the elevator up to the observation tower at the top, from where the view was a little disappointing as the day was hazy.  All the same  I took some photographs.
            We descended to ground level, in the surprisingly swift elevator, and from there walked to 42nd Street, which I had hoped would be bright and glamorous, but which instead I found extremely seedy.   It seemed that it had come down in the world since the great movie with that  title had been made in the early 1930s.  However, our destination was at the end of 42nd Street, at the pier where we bought tickets and boarded the City Line boat which circumnavigates the whole of Manhattan Island; and had been mentioned in my guide book as one of the things one must do if one was in New York for a short time.
            It was every bit as good as the guide book had suggested, though I did not manage to get as many pictures as I had intended, for my film ended just after I had taken a view of The Statue of Liberty.  
            I had another film that I could use, but I did not load it, as something seemed wrong with the camera, for after I had  thought that I had  run it back, I opened the camera and found that part of the film was  still visible, so I quickly closed it again.
            We began by travelling down river, passing  Liberty Island with its Statue and Governor’s Island, before turning round by the Battery into the East River.   All the while we had a commentary over the public address system, which was excellent and informative for most of the time, apart from when the commentator became infuriated by the behaviour of certain unruly child passengers,  who, at first, he fairly politely warned that they should cease their misconduct, and then as they ignored him, became more and more angry and threatened mayhem if they would not behave.  Through all his tirade, the parents of the children who were seated quite near to us, totally ignored his remarks and their children’s behaviour and sat contentedly drinking beer.
            The cruise lasted about two hours,  and when we disembarked I thought that I was ready to have some lunch,  though   had Hilde not been present, I would have been tempted to board the floating aircraft museum that was moored near by: a converted aircraft carrier carrying on its decks a surprisingly large selection of different planes.  However, I did not even suggest that, as I knew that she would have hated it.
            We made our way along 43rd Street, which seemed even seedier than 42nd Street, to Times Square, which I was disappointed to find was hardly a square, but rather a  wide stretch of Broadway.   There we had a reasonable lunch in an Italian cafeteria, which must have been part of a chain, for later we saw two others of the same name within a few hundred yards of it.
            Next we looked for a camera shop with a dark room, and found one on the corner of 8th Avenue and 42nd Street.   I discussed Salonika where I had served in the army many years previously, with the proprietor, an amiable elderly Greek from that city.   He took the camera into his dark room and extracted the film which we left with him for developing.  We then took a taxi to the Guggenheim Museum which we found very impressive, though the building itself by Frank Lloyd Wright being more impressive than any of the exhibits within.   When he had first designed it, he had intended that the exhibits should be viewed as visitors descended a circular ramp from the top floor to the ground.   However a side extension had lately been added which increased viewing space, but rather detracted from the original plan, for now, at each level we could leave the ramp and look at the exhibits at that level of the extension.
            We left the museum at around 4 p.m., and started walking back by way of Central Park, which we had been warned could be a dangerous place:  but though we passed hundreds of joggers;  happily  we saw no muggers.
            We left the park, and in Columbus Avenue took another taxi and  asked to be put down at the corner of 42nd and 5th.   It was only when we got out and the taxi had departed that I remembered that I should have said the corner of 42nd and 8th.   As a consequence we had quite a long walk to the camera shop where the film had been developed, and  where I found that, despite the exposure of film when I had opened the camera, none had been spoilt.
            We went back to  our hotel and had showers, then rested for a while, then after dark went  out again for a meal.  We ate at Lindy’s Bar on Time Square which was decorated with photographs of famous  stage and film star patrons.  No famous patron was there as we ate; though there was an eccentric looking individual who  talked at great length to no one in particular,  ordered the cheapest thing he could find on the menu, and then tried to pay with an outdated credit card.
            After an altercation with the proprietor who threatened to call the police, he produced some notes in real money and paid, and then left,  muttering something about the injustice of the world.
            We drank red wine, and with it I ate a ridiculously large triple (Or was it quadruple) deck sandwich, which was too large for me to finish.  Hilde had something a little more in keeping with her appetite.
            To pay the bill I presented my Co-op Visa card.   Which was swiftly brought back to me  and I was told that there was not enough in my account.   I turned red, and then produced my Barclaycard, which they accepted.    It was my own fault.  Before I left England I had told Barclaycard that I would not be home to receive the next monthly bill,  but I had forgotten to do the same to Co-op Visa as I had not imagined that I would be using that card.
 
Day 45  2nd July 1992
New York and the flight home
This was to be our last day in New York.   Mindful of our remaining funds I thought that we had best not eat in the hotel restaurant.  In any case the breakfast there had been far too large.  We left the hotel and went to the coffee shop next door where we had a breakfast that was far more reasonable both in Quantity and in price.
            We then set about changing our remaining travellers cheques, which  proved to be far from easy, despite our having taken the precaution of getting American Express Cheques rather than our usual Barclays' Travellers Cheques.  That was actually only half of what was necessary.  We should have had American Express Dollar Cheques.  American Express Sterling Cheques were almost as difficult to change as Barclays' Cheques would have been.  The first two banks where we tried to change them did not seem to recognise them.  We went to Thomas Cook’s office where we were confident that they could be changed.   Our confidence was not misplaced, but the helpful  Thomas Cook girl pointed out that they would  have to charge a fee which would not be the case in an American Express Office.  She gave us directions to get to the nearest one. where we were able to change them.
            I found this problem with money changing in the centre of the largest city in the United States rather surprising, until I realised that most Americans never need  foreign currency or travellers cheques, for, though they may be widely travelled, their travelling is usually within the vast spaces of their own country.
            On our way back to the hotel we looked in at Grand Central Station which was very impressive, and where Hilde managed to make use of the toilet.   That seemed to be another problem with the great American nation.  Within its borders there seem to be very few public conveniences.   The only one that we had found, in San Francisco, was locked..  Presumably to prevent it becoming a haven for drug pushers and addicts.
            Back at the hotel, we took our bags down to reception and left them there after we had  ordered an airport shuttle bus for 7.30 p.m.  We then set off to walk to Greenwich Village, along 5th Avenue.   It did not look too long a walk from the map, but it was an extremely long walk, though it was also extremely interesting, as we passed Madison Square Gardens, and the Flatiron Building which was the first skyscraper to reach 20 storeys.
            Then we reached the very small green area, which was the park  referred to in Neil Simon’s play Barefoot in the Park.   It was much smaller than I had imagined: how very Un-American!
            We looked in on New York University Catholic Chapel where mass was being celebrated, but we did not stay.   Then we found a pub-like establishment at the start of SoHo where we had lunch, then walked on  through SoHo to the World Trade Centre.  By then our feet were aching,  so we rested on a bench for a few minutes before entering Tower 2, and ascending to the top in the lift.   This was the second highest building in the world, the highest being the Sears Building in Chicago: though I understand that there is now an even higher building in Malaysia. 
            Unlike the previous day, the sky was not hazy, and we had splendid views in all directions, including as far as Newark Airport in New Jersey, from where we were to fly home that night.
            When we were back at ground level we purchased a CD as a present for our son, Stephen, and then walked back to Greenwich Village by way of China Town and Little Italy, which I thought looked  very shabby.            
            In Greenwich Village, we sat outside a café and drank cappuccinos.  I ate chocolate cake, and Hilde ate  taramisu.    We decided that we should not attempt to walk back to the hotel  as it was by now late afternoon, so we hailed a taxi.
            The taxi got us to within three blocks of the hotel, and there it stopped, for the streets ahead were blocked by fire engines, police  cars and other taxis.  We could see smoke rising from a skyscraper ahead, and hoped that it was not our hotel.
            The driver told us that he did not think he could get any further, so we paid him and dismounted and walked to our hotel.
            It had not caught fire, but neither was there any furniture in the lobby, a fact which I had not noticed before.   I asked the clerk at reception where the furniture was.   He looked rather embarrassed and apologised.   He told us that they had had to get rid of all the chairs and other furniture after a previous guest has done something rather dreadful to it. Our minds worked rapidly for a while as we tried to imagine what that dreadful thing could have been.
            This meant that we had nowhere to sit, though  I suppose that we could  have got our cases from the store room where they were being kept and sat on them: but we didn’t much fancy doing that for the hour before our transport arrived: so instead we went into the hotel bar and ordered Manhattan’s  which like the Singapore Slings we had drunk in Raffles Hotel in Singapore, I thought particularly appropriate.
            We drank them slowly, and then, with about twelve minutes to go, went back into the lobby and did sit on our cases for a  while until the transit bus arrived for us.
            We were the only passengers, and we made very good time to Newark Airport.  
            As we approached I saw that there was a Jumbo Jet on the tarmac,  and wondered whether it was ours, but decided it could not be, for our plane was not due to take off until ten.
            How wrong I was about that.   There were no other passengers at check in, but when we did check in we were told that they had been calling our names for the past hour.  Our flight was due to leave at 8 p.m. It was already 8 p.m.   After six weeks of travelling and numerous flights, I had managed to misread the  twenty-four hour clock and think that 2000 hours was ten p.m.   It has never been ten p.m.
            Our cases were booked through with special red labels indicating that they were late arrivals and that we should not complain if they did not make it to the plane.    Then we rushed through the departure lounge at high speed, and were able to board our flight before it took off.  I have never been through an airport so swiftly.  All in all, it was less than five minutes from the moment we entered the airport to the moment we boarded the plane. 
            Clearly they had not just been waiting for us,  for the flight did not take off for another three quarters of an hour.
            Once more I was  totally unimpressed with Continental service.  The cabin staff seemed poorly trained, and  the instructions for safety procedures on the P.A. system were almost totally incomprehensible, and even the cabin staff seemed to regard them as a sort of joke.   We were two hours in the air, and I was already asleep when the meal arrived, and after I had ate it I found it difficult  to get asleep again.
            However, perhaps I am being a little unfair.  After all if the take off had not been so late, which I attributed to inefficiency,  we would not have caught our flight.
            We arrived at Gatwick early next morning, on the forty-sixth day of our journey.   Our taxi service was efficient, and the driver was waiting for us; and drove us back to Tunbridge Wells swiftly and safely, though, it was a dull day, and England did not look such a green and pleasant land as it had on the day we left.   I half wished that I was still in Australia or Fiji.
            Our daughter Katie was waiting for us when we got home.   She told us that our car needed a service.  Something was wrong with the engine and she had only just managed to coax it back home the last time she had  used it.
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            Then came the day when I was officially to become Mayor of Tunbridge Wells. I can’t remember the names of all the people that I had invited to the ceremony, but apart from Ruby they included Hildegard and my children, Aunt Queenie and Uncle Arthur, Freda Costar, who was a distant relative, and her husband, Bob, Brian and Jane Beeley of the local Liberal Democrat party, and Denny Lock one of my childhood friends, and his wife Joyce.
            This was the second time that I was to be an active participant in such a ceremony for I had experienced it the previous year when I had become Deputy Mayor.  Before the ceremony began my party were found special seats in the council chamber, then the ceremony began, with me entering behind the retiring mayor, David Mills. The ceremony began with the chief executive doing most of the talking, then I was taken back to the mayor’s parlour, clothed in my official robes and chain, and then marched back behind the mayor’s attendant who was carrying the mace, returned to the central seat on the dais, where, as mayor I took charge of the proceedings, which included presenting badges to the former mayor and his wife, David and Cerena Mills, various formal items of business which took about half an hour, and then I returned to the mayor’s parlour where my robes were removed then joining the councillors and all the guests in a committee room for drinks, canapés, conviviality and conversation.
            During all this activity Dennis Lock, who had not seen my sister Ruby since they were both in their twenties, told her that when they were both young he had always wanted to kiss her.  She told him that he could kiss her now, which he did, much to the dismay of his wife, Joyce.  No one else kissed during this gathering, but everyone seemed reasonably happy, and after, perhaps a couple of hours, all the people had left apart from my own guests and we repaired to another committee room for a private lunch, which went very well; after which Hildegard, my children and I were driven home in the official mayor’s car which was driven by my official attendant, Roy, who in the year that followed became a very good friend.
            Almost the first duty a mayor of Tunbridge Wells was expected to perform was to be the host in the mayor’s marquee in the Neville Ground for one match during Cricket Week, when the Kent County Cricket Team would play against one of the other counties.  My late brother in law, who was a cricket enthusiast, would have loved it.  I, as someone who had never liked cricket, expected to hate it, but, to my surprise I enjoyed it, as did Hildegard and Ruby, who had not yet returned to Australia.
            Not that I saw all that much of the match, as most of my time there was taken with conversation to my guests, drinking Buck Fizz and other alcoholic beverages, and eating the splendid food which the ratepayers of Tunbridge Wells had provided for us.
            One of the guests was the High Sheriff of Kent, who towards the end of the afternoon asked me if I would object if he brought his son to the marquee as the boy would love to see Kent play. Of course I did not object.  The High Sheriff went off to fetch his son, and when the young boy arrived, I placed him in a seat from where he could observe the match.
            The boy happily sat down and gazed at the players, and almost immediately, to his surprise, and mine, for I had not been paying much attention to what was going on on the field, the match ended, and there was no more cricket played that day.
            Some days later I presided at the Mayor’s banquet which was held at the High Rocks Inn. It is always the venue for that annual event, which is a little strange as the Inn is not actually in Tunbridge Wells Borough, but just across the border in East Sussex. It was a most enjoyable event, and the guests were entertained with fine singing because I had invited the leading singers from the Tunbridge Wells Operatic and Dramatic Society’s production of Showboat to the function.
            For the whole of my year as Mayor, Hilde and I, as members of what we jokingly called The Chain Gang, went with other mayors and their partners to various activities in Kent and Sussex, and once across the Channel to an activity in France. The most memorable of those activities took place in early Spring when I was driven to Margate to attend the Greek Orthodox ceremony of the blessing of the sea.
            For this we stood on the windswept beach with other mayors and watched the Greek Orthodox patriarch from London perform the ceremony, which culminated with the throwing of a ceremonial wreath into the sea, at which point a specially chosen Greek Orthodox youth, clad in swimming trunks, dashed into the sea to retrieve it. We felt very sorry for the lad, for to brave that icy water was an almost heroic act.
            After the ceremony we all went into a building where a splendid banquet was provided accompanied by speeches by functionaries in both English and in Greek.
            I learnt recently that this annual ceremony had now been discontinued.  Perhaps because the relatively small Greek Orthodox community of Margate was no longer prepared to provide sacrificial youth in danger of hypothermia through swimming to recover wreaths from the sea.
            Another function that I particularly enjoyed in my year as Mayor was the reception at the town hall for the competitors in the biannual International Concert Artists Competition, and, in the Assembly Hall the final performance of the competition.
            The first prize was won by a talented teen-aged violinist from the Georgian Republic.
            Hildegard and I enjoyed the year that I spent as mayor, yet I was quite glad when it ended for that meant that I could return to acting politically as a Liberal Democrat councillor, which as an impartial mayor I had not been able to do.
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            For some time Hildegard had been an active member of the Tunbridge Wells Choral Society, and I had always enjoyed the concerts at the Assembly Hall in which the Choral Society would perform.
            The Choral Society had acted as hosts to another society from Wiesbaden in Germany, I think it was the Wiesbaden Bach Choir, and a couple of the German singers stayed with us whilst their society was in Tunbridge Wells.  The following year, the Choral Society was invited back to Wiesbaden, and now that I was no longer mayor I was able to drive Hilde there; a journey that took slightly longer than we had expected, because a Belgium industrial dispute meant that we could not drive through Belgium, and we had to get to Germany by way of Switzerland which took much longer.
            Hildegard and I were the guests of a member of the Wiesbaden choir.  It was our first visit to that city, and we found it very interesting; seeing the sights, including a monastery which still housed monks, and where I was told that in medieval times monks tended to die at an early age because of their adverse living conditions.  We also went on a cruise on the Rhine, including to the site of the Lorelei Rock and as the ship approached the site the famous Lorelei music was played on loudspeakers.
            The main event of that visit was a concert performed by the Choral Society and the German choir.  To my surprise and mild dismay, as the ex-mayor of Tunbridge Wells I was asked to make a speech to the audience.  I had not prepared anything, so I simply waffled for a few minutes in English and bad German,  but my waffle seemed to be quite successful, for I got applause when I finished, and afterwards several people congratulated me on my effort.
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            Hildegard and I did visit Ruby in Australia again, and enjoyed Perth even more than on our first visit.  Getting into Perth was easier than previously because the Metro had been extended beyond Beldon, and during the day there were regular fast Metro trains into the city. 
            0n that second visit we also travelled from Perth to Melbourne where Johnny and Moira now lived, and to where Bill had been transferred, as he was now in charge of the giant French cosmetic company,  l’Oreal’s sales in two states, Victoria and South Australia. We both liked Melbourne very much.  I think  I preferred it to Sydney, though it does not have such a glorious setting on the water as has Sydney:  but it had something of the quality of a European city; and, I had read, even more theatres than Sydney.
            We stayed with my nephew, Bill, in his house in the suburb of St Kilde, which is very cosmopolitan and has a large Jewish population.  Eating out one evening, we thought that we were the only non-Jewish patrons of the restaurant.
            Melbourne also has a large population of Greek expatriates, and has been described as the second largest Greek city in the world.  It was to a very good Greek restaurant that Bill took us for an evening meal whilst we were there.
            We also paid a visit to the gold mining town of Ballarat, where the old buildings, including the theatre have been reconstructed and can be visited by tourists. People dressed in 19th century costume provide information and demonstrate working techniques.  One demonstration that we saw that day was how to construct wooden wheels.
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            Some years later Hildegard and I had a two centre European holiday: to Cyprus and Malta, flying out to Cyprus first by Air Malta, where we stayed for an enjoyable week, and then to Malta, which, if anything, was more interesting than Cyprus.  It is, I think, the most fervently Roman Catholic country that I have visited, much more so than the Republic of Ireland.  All taxi drivers seemed to have religious bricabac displayed in their cabs; and from the Airport I think I counted at least five churches in view in the surrounding countryside.
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            I think that was the last holiday that I had with my Darling, Hildegard, for soon after we returned, the breast cancer that had caused the removal of one breast several years before returned, and after a fairly short interval, despite all that the doctors could do, killed her.
            She had been in and out of the Kent and Sussex hospital and was finally in the Pembury Hospice where she died.  I was with her, holding her hand during her final moments.
            The children and I were distraught at the loss of Hildegard, though we had all realised for some time that she was not going to recover from this illness.
            At her funeral, Grete, Bill Scott, and our friend Eva from America were present as were many friends that we had made over the years in Tunbridge Wells.  After the burial I had to find how I could live alone without her. At roughly the same time as Hildegard’s death, I had news from Austria that her mother had died also.
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            When I was mayor I had an occasional walking problem in that I would suddenly feel that I was about to fall down.  It was almost as if I had become drunk, though it did not follow any time that I had been drinking.
            This had continued after I had finished my year as mayor, and after Hildegard died the family persuaded me to see a doctor about this.  My doctor referred me to the hospital where I was examined by a surgeon and x-rayed.   I was told that I had a problem in the base of my spine and that an operation was necessary to correct it.  The surgeon told me that I would be put on a waiting list for the operation, but that as the list was quite long, it would be several months before I would be operated on under the NHS
            I asked whether it could be done more quickly if I paid for private treatment and was told that I could receive the operation almost immediately. 
            I have always been strongly opposed to private medical treatment, but as I was even more opposed to suffering this problem for several months, I agreed to pay for private treatment.  A week later I was a patient in a private hospital in Lewisham where I was operated on by the same surgeon who would have performed the operation several months later under the NHS, if I had not gone private.
            The operation was successful, and shortly afterwards though more than one thousand pounds poorer, I was back at home, with my walking problem corrected.
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            Next came a happy event, Michele became pregnant, and nine months later my first grandson was born: Benjamin Baker, though we never called him by his full name, but we knew him as Ben.  He was and is, a lovely child, and my only regret was that Hildegard was not alive to see him.
            His father, my son, Stephen, was by now an assistant principle of a large comprehensive school in Crowborough, East Sussex, about ten miles from Tunbridge Wells; his mother, Michele, continued working in the civil service in London.  As Stephen could get home earlier than Michele, he continued to do most of the family cooking. He had become a very enthusiastic cook, and was constantly buying cookery books, so that on a shelf in their kitchen, there were so many cookery books stacked in a pile that in time they stretched from the shelf, at about waist height, to the ceiling.
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            I felt that I needed to get away for a while from my lonely home, so I booked another trip to Australia through Bridge the World, and with my second son, Tom, flew to Darwin where we stayed for a while in a splendid hotel.  Splendid for me that was, for Tom found sleep difficult as my snoring kept him awake.  He complained so much, that for subsequent stages of that holiday I made sure that he had separate bedrooms where he could sleep in peace.
            We were in Darwin for a fairly short time, but from there went to the vast Kakadu National Park, where we flew over the park to view it, and then when we descended, stayed in comfortable accommodation, and viewed the sites of the park including rock paintings, and a river trip during which our knowledgeable aborigine guide showed us crocodiles resting by the river bank, and told us about the ferocity of those creatures.  We did not attempt to swim in that river.
            After Kakadu, we returned to Darwin, then flew south to Uluru, for Ayers Rock, where we stayed in a comfortable modern hotel which was in a hotel complex which with its late Twentieth Century buildings set down in the Northern Territory desert, looked rather as I imagined s settlement on a distant planet might have looked.
            The main geographical feature of the area was, of course, Ayers Rock which we viewed but did not attempt to climb. The aborigines, in particular, object to attempts to climb the rock, not so much because it is a sacred site, but because it is dangerous and they don’t want visitors to be killed or injured.
            From Uluru we travelled a few miles north to Kings Canyon, where we spend a few days. Whilst there Tom went on the two kilometre Kings Creek Walk, but I did not attempt it. 
            Despite my lack of activity I found Kings Canyon an interesting place, and I was particularly impressed by the fact that much of the work in servicing the needs of visitors to
the resort was performed by aborigines.
            After a few days we returned to Uluru, in time to take part in a moonlit banquet in view of the rock, which was very enjoyable.
            Next day we flew over the rock and the surrounding countryside in a helicopter, which was, perhaps, the best way of seeing the full grandeur of the rock.
            At the end of our stay in Uluru we flew, by way of Alice Springs, to Broom, on the North West Coast of Western Australia.  There we stayed in a very comfortable hotel built by the Tory peer, Lord MacAlpine, on the outskirts of the town, in buildings designed in the Chinese style, though, not, so far as I knew, designed by Chinese architects.
            Broom, which is a pearl fishing centre, and one of the few Australian towns that had been bombed by the Japanese during the war, I found to be a rather boring place, though Tom and I did manage to have an interesting cruise on a trimaran yacht, and also to visit a crocodile viewing and research centre quite near our hotel where we learnt more of the ferocity of those creatures and the speed with which they could travel on shore, as well as in the water.
            Before we left I hired a car which was to take us down the West Coast to Perth.
            For that lengthy drive, which took several days, Tom and I took turns driving.
            Much of the drive was through desert and passing very little other traffic, but with signs warning drivers to beware of kangaroos on the road, though we did not see any.
            On our drive South we spent one night at a town, the name of which I have forgotten, where we went on a short cruise in a boat with a glass section in its bottom from which we could observe the fish below us.  Tom who had taken his swimming costume, swam from that boat for a while, but I did not attempt it.
            We drove further South and spent time in Geraldton which I found a very interesting place, which had a large Roman Catholic Cathedral, whose architect had been a priest. On the outskirts of the town we visited an area which contained a reconstruction of an early settlement, and we also paid a visit to  the Hutt River Province, an area that claims to be an independent nation, since its self-proclaimed secession from Western Australia.  There we met and talked to the leader of the ‘Province’, who struck me as an egotistical idiot.  Neither the government of West Australia, nor any other official body has recognised the Hutt River claims.
            We continued driving South from Geraldton  and made our final stop before reaching Perth, at the tiny fishing town, or rather village, for it has fewer than 500 inhabitants, of Cervantes, which is very close to the Pinnacles in Nambung National Park.
            We stayed at a very comfortable little hotel, and visited the Pinnacles which I had seen before, but which was Tom’s first visit. We spent some time viewing those splendid natural entities before returning to our hotel.
            Next morning we left Cervantes and drove on to Perth. I was a little worried that we would have difficulty finding Ruby’s house, but I should not have worried.  I had bought a very good road atlas and we reached Beldon without any difficulty.  Ruby had moved since my first visit and was now living in a cul-de-sac which was part of a lengthy road, Spinaway Street. It was a very comfortable little house, though it did not have a swimming pool.
            As soon as we arrived Ruby agreed to come with us when we took the car to the hire company in Perth to hand it back.
            Perth was just as I remembered it.   We found the hire company without too much difficulty and handed in the car.  We then looked for somewhere to eat:  found a suitable restaurant and took Ruby there for lunch. After we had eaten we took the metro train back to Beldon.
            Next day Tom left to visit a friend in Adelaide, but he was back by Christmas which I think we celebrated at Ralph and Tomoko’s house in Warwick.  They had now had a son, Alex who was a pupil at a Catholic school in the city.  He is a very intelligent child, who seemed to particularly like Tom.
            After the New Year, we said goodbye to Ruby and flew to Kalgoolie, the gold mining town where we stayed for three nights. Kalgoolie is an interesting place, but it’s not that interesting and three nights was probably too long, one night would have been sufficient, but we did go on a day’s tour to a gold mine. 
            The other tour that was advertised we did not take, though I suspect that Tom would have liked to take it: it was a tour of the brothels. There are three, though there used to be seven, but fear of aids has reduced their number.
            Brothels are licensed in Western Australia, and they are respectable enough for the owner of the largest brothel to have been elected a member of the Kalgoolie City Council
            From Kalgoolie, we flew to Adelaide for a few days where I was introduced to Tom’s friend, who like Tom, was a street performer.  He was performing at the casino where we met him.  It was my first visit to a casino, but I was not tempted to gamble there.  It seemed to me to be a soulless place and the patrons sad individuals.
            In Sydney we met my nephew John, and his partner Moira.  Whilst we were there the Sydney festival was in progress.  We stayed in a hotel in the Kings Cross area, and I went to the Opera House twice. The first time was to the smaller Opera House theatre, where I saw a well produced production of The Lady in the Van., by Alan Bennet.  The second time was in the main auditorium, where I saw an opera, the name of which I have now forgotten.
            It was pouring with rain as I left the Opera House, but I managed to get a taxi and returned to my hotel without getting too wet.
            Finally, from Sydney we flew home.
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            A couple of years later, my daughter Katherine, who had married Keith from Northern Ireland, but who was now living quite close to me in Tunbridge Wells, and had given up her job as the manager of a bookshop in Covent Garden in London, gave birth to her first child, my second grandson, Billy, who like his cousin Ben was another lovely boy; then some years later, Katherine had her second child, my granddaughter, Caitlin, a really beautiful little girl.
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            It was around this time that I had a short holiday to the Scilly Isles that I took with a neighbour, Richard, who lived at 3 Henley Close.
            From London we took an express train to Cornwall, to, I think, Penzance, where we boarded the helicopter which flew us to the Scilly Isles. I was a little apprehensive during that flight, as I was aware that helicopters were not as safe as fixed wing aircraft, but we managed that flight without any danger, just as we managed the return flight at the end of our holiday.
            When we landed at the heliport we discovered that no cars were allowed on the roads on this particular island, which I think was Tresco, and we were taken to our hotel seated in a trailer that was pulled along by a tractor.
            Our hotel, when we reached it, was very comfortable.
            However, we did not stay for the whole of the holiday on that island, but took the ferry for the short sea trip to St Mary’s the main inhabited island.  There, the main populated area, Hugh Town, was recognisable as a small town, and even had roads on which cars could be driven.
            We looked at what there was to see, including the harbour in which The Scillonian III, the ferry which took passengers to and from the Cornish mainland, was moored.  We found a very nice pub where we had lunch before taking a launch back to our own island where another trailer pulled by a tractor took us back to our hotel.
            It was an enjoyable little holiday, despite the fact that I got into a mildly acrimonious argument with Richard who did not agree with my assertion that the British Empire was not a wholly benign ruler for its millions of non white inhabitants.
            However, we were still talking to each other when we boarded the helicopter that took us back to the mainland, and then the train for the journey back to London.
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            Over time I suffered a reoccurrence of walking problems, though not of the unsteadiness that had necessitated the spine operation.  I was admitted to the Kent and Sussex Hospital where I had a hip replacement. 
            When I was discharged I returned home, though living in that three storied house would have been nearly impossible for me, with the living room on the first floor and my bedroom on the second, but for the fact that during Hildegard’s last illness I had stair lifts installed from the ground to the top floor which enabled me, even with my artificial hip, to get up to my bedroom.
            However, a few weeks after my return from hospital I dislocated my new hip.  This happened when I was up in the bedroom and had undressed and put on my pyjamas. As I was climbing on to the bed I suffered an extreme pain and collapsed on to the bed in agony. I realised that I had to call for an ambulance, but the telephone was two floors away in my study on the ground floor.
            I managed to crawl from the bedroom to the head of the stairs, climb on to the stair lift, descend to the first floor and transfer to the lower stair lift, descend to the ground floor, and by hanging on to walls stagger to the front door to unlock it, then stagger to my study and phone for an ambulance, then phoned Richard to warn him what was happening to me.  As it was then around midnight, it was perhaps surprising that he remained a friend despite having been awakened at that time.
            The ambulance arrived and I was returned to the hospital.
            I was in hospital for a few days whilst my artificial hip was removed and a new one installed.
            Back at home I realised that living in a three storey house, even with stair lifts, was not suitable for an elderly man with an artificial hip; so I began looking for other accommodation and after some time found a second floor flat in a modern apartment block with a working lift, and after disposing of most of my furniture and selling most of my books, sold the house in which I had lived happily with Hildegard and bought up my family for so many years and moved to my new flat in Culverden Park Road, Tunbridge Wells.
            I thought that I would regret giving up my house, but, in fact I did not.  The new flat was very comfortable and as Stephen and Michele lived a short distance away in the same road; and Kate, Keith and their children also lived in Tunbridge Wells so I saw a lot of them.  Most weeks I would eat at Stephen and Michele’s house on Fridays, and at Kate and Keith’s on Mondays.
            I had some interesting holidays, including my first visit to Canada, when Titan Tours flew me to Ottawa, where I spent two or three days looking at that lovely capital city, liking it so much that I wondered whether I should permanently settle there; but then the thought of the harsh Canadian winters put me off of that particular dream.
            I don’t think I saw any Mounties on that trip, but I was thrilled to find that a large department store near my hotel was owned by the legendary Hudson’s Bay Company.
            I crossed the river into Quebec Province and in Montreal, was very impressed by the beautiful Catholic cathedral; however I was not so impressed by the prominent monument erected to Lord Nelson.  As that monument was erected relatively soon after the province had been taken from the French, seeing it must have been like rubbing salt into the wound for the majority French Canadian population of the city.
            However, the main part of that holiday was taken up by a cruise down river on a ship that was a replica of a turn of the century steamship, called, so far as I can remember, The Canadian Empress. On that little ship we sailed down river to the St Lawrence, and then proceeded upstream towards Niagara Falls.
            It was a very friendly little ship with passengers from the UK, Canada and the United States. The chief engineer, had been present at the construction of the ship and may have installed the engines.
            Some evenings the purser presided over a general knowledge quiz.  At one such quiz a question was “What do you call someone with an IQ lower than 70?”  I called out, “The President of the United States.” At that time the elder Bush was president
            The purser groaned then replied, “I’m glad that a Canadian didn‘t say that.  No, the correct answer is ‘an idiot’”.
            “Exactly” I said.
            That exchange did not seem to annoy the American passengers who were present.
            On another, musical evening, I sang the cockney ballad: “Your Baby has gone down the Plug hole.”
            Once we reached the St. Lawrence, the cruise upriver was particularly interesting, with a visit to a Canadian village that was preserved in its original pioneer state, and later to historical sites that were important during the war between Britain and the United States which took place in 1812.
            We cruised through the Bay of Islands before disembarking at Kingston, and went from there to Niagara, where we saw the magnificent falls.
            From Niagara we moved on to Toronto where my fellow tourists were due to spend several nights, but I had asked for a flight home on the day that we arrived in Toronto because there had been an outbreak of a flue like disease in that city and both Kate and Stephen were worried that I might be infected by the illness, and back in England pass it on to my grandchildren; so as soon as our coach arrived in Toronto I was transferred to a taxi that would take me to the airport in time for my flight.
            I nearly missed that flight, for at the airport potential passengers were asked whether they had suffered any illness recently.  I said that I was OK apart from a persistent cough that I had suffered from for a month or so.
            Such honesty was not the best policy for me, for when I mentioned that cough I was pulled out of the throng heading for the departure lounge, and was put through a battery of tests to establish whether I was suffering from the flue like disease; and by the time that I had convinced them that I was not, I had just time enough to rush through the departure lounge and board the plane shortly before it took off.
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            I used Titan Tours again for another holiday abroad; this time to Iceland, where I spend about a week one summer.
            Despite its name, which I understand in Icelandic means Ireland rather than Ice Land, it was not particularly cold.  There was certainly no snow whilst I was there, and not much rain either. We stayed in a comfortable hotel in Reykjavik and were shown round by a very knowledgeable tour guide who was a qualified architect, but presumably found guiding more profitable and interesting than designing buildings.
            Wikipedia describes the country as the most sparsely populated land in Europe with only round 320,000 inhabitants.  We did not spend much time in the capital, but went all over the land in our tourist bus.
            I suppose the most memorable thing about the country is its stark landscape.  Most of our journey was along the coast and we saw much of the sea.
            On the day of our departure our route to the airport took us through an area with hot springs with the possibility if time permitted, of bathing in a naturally heated bath, but I did not make use of that opportunity.
            Islands have always fascinated me, and I succumbed to that fascination a little later by flying to the Isle of Man and spending a few days in the capital Douglas. If anything I found that small island even more interesting than Iceland.
            I thought Douglas was quite an attractive town and was particularly struck by its horse drawn trams. However I did not spend all of that holiday in Douglas but travelled to other parts of the island, including going by train to the West Coast where a replica Viking village had been built.
            The Isle of Man is a self governing territory, and even has its own currency, though one can also use UK currency on the island. By the time that I was due to leave my wallet contained a mixture of UK and Isle of Man notes, but I was able to exchange the latter without too much difficulty.
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            Another short holiday that I took, but without using Titan Tours this time, was for a few days in Dublin: which was a city that I last visited with Hildegard, Stephen and baby Tom following a round Ireland tour.
            I flew from Heathrow by British Midland, which was the first time that I had used that airline.  I stayed in a comfortable hotel in a turning off O’Connell Street. As soon as I had booked in, I went out to explore the city.
            It had a distinct air of prosperity and, unlike in my previous visit, I did not see any beggars. I saw a life sized statue of James Joyce in one street, and in Grafton Street, a statue of Molly Malone, who the song tells us ‘Wheeled her wheel barrow, through streets broad and narrow, singing Cockles and Mussels, alive, alive oh.’
            I boarded a sightseeing bus and went on a tour of the city, with an amusing  commentary delivered by the driver/guide.   At one point we saw a statue of Oscar Wilde, reclining on a hillock.  Our commentator said. ‘There he is, the Fag on the crag.’
            The same evening I saw an excellent Irish play at the Abbey Theatre, Da, by Hugh Leonard, in which Da, the title character is dead but very present in the play.  I liked it very much and wondered if I could get the Drama Club to produce it, and if I did, could I play that part? I walked back to my hotel after the play to find that in the lounge there was a performance of Irish music and dancing, so I stayed up until that was finished. I was served a beer by a very attractive girl who looked a typical Irish colleen.  I asked what part of Ireland she came from.  She told me that she wasn’t Irish but Polish.
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            Perhaps one of the most enjoyable holiday that I have head since the death of Hildegard was a river trip on the Dneiper and on to the Black Sea that I took with Bill Scott.
                        It began with our flight to Kiev, the capital of Ukraine, from where we boarded the ship that was to take us down river.
            It was a very large comfortable ship, and after we were shown our cabin,  I shared one with Bill Scott, we were introduced to our guide, who was a very knowledgeable Ukrainian lady.  The ship soon cast off, and as we started down river we were shown our places in the large dining saloon. The food was excellent, though not specifically Russian or Ukrainian.  I think the catering was organised by a Swiss company who provided us with an international cuisine. On the opposite bank we saw what looked like a sandy beach on which many Kiev natives were doing the sort of things that people did on sandy beaches all over the world. However, we were soon away from Kiev and its pleasure beach, and making for the next large city on the river, Dnipropetrovsk. We went ashore in that city, and I was impressed by its markets though I did not buy anything from them.
            The ship continued cruising towards the Black Sea, stopping at one settlement where we visited a ballet school, and watched an excellent performance by the young students.
            We reached the mouth of the Dneiper and entered the Black Sea and sailed west to Odessa.  I had been a little apprehensive about our river ship having to experience a sea crossing, but I need not have worried, the sea was, if anything, even more calm than the river had been.
            At Odessa the ship berthed by the famous Potempkin Steps which were featured in the film, The Battleship Potemkin, in which a massacre of citizens on the steps was portrayed, though historically the actual massacre did not happen on the steps, but nearby.
            I found the great city very interesting, including the changing of the guard outside one official building when the guard was made up of school children who were chosen for this ceremonial role as an honour.
            From the city we were driven to a restaurant in the countryside where we sat at outside tables and ate a meal and drank wine whilst watching a performance of song and dance by a company that had performed in an international eisteddfod in Wales. My enjoyment of the food and the performance was marred somewhat when a waitress spilt soup on my jacket.
            From Odessa we sailed to Sevastopol in the Crimea. The Crimea is an autonomous republic and is part of Ukraine, though Russia is opposed to Ukrainian possession of the peninsula.   Sevastopol though not in Russia is still the main base for the Russian Black Sea fleet,  but it is also a base for the Ukrainian Navy. The two fleets sit side by side in the harbour, and there is considerable tension at a higher level, though whether that tension exists at the level of the ordinary seamen, I was not able to discover. However, one entertainment which we enjoyed was a performance of singing and dancing by male and some female Russian sailors.  This was spectacular, and one of the high points of the entire holiday.
            While in the Crimea we did not simply stay in Sevastopol but toured extensively in the peninsula, including visiting the site of The Charge of the Light Brigade, and Yalta where we saw the palace where Churchill stayed during the meeting between him, President Roosevelt, and Stalin.  Our guide was extremely informative at both sites, and seemed to favour Churchill and dislike Stalin, though that may have had something to do with the fact that she was talking to English tourists.  After a very interesting stay, we left the Crimea, sailed to the mouth of the Dneiper and then proceeded up river.
            At one stopping point on the river we were entertained by a lively performance by a troop of Cossack singers and dancers; though even without such spectacular performers there was interesting entertainment provided on board the ship where daily we listened to music performed by the ship’s talented musicians, a group of young Ukrainians with a very attractive and talented girl singer.
            Finally we were back in Kiev, where reluctantly we left the ship and were taken to the airport for our flight home.  At the airport I bought Ukrainian caviar as a gift for my family, and noticed, rather to my surprise, that the departure lounge had a bar selling Irish stout.
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            Another holiday that I had alone, was a tour of New Zealand organised by Titan Tours.  This began with a long flight to Los Angeles, and from there a flight by New Zealand Airways to Auckland.
            I had no trouble going through customs in Auckland, unlike a fellow passenger who was found to be carrying food in her bag, which was against strict New Zealand quarantine regulations which did not permit the import of animal products in personal luggage.
            Our very modern Auckland hotel was in a skyscraper, from the top of which one got a splendid view of New Zealand’s largest city; however, I did not enjoy it overmuch for on that first day in New Zealand I became physically sick and disgorged most of the food that I had eaten on the flight. I did not see a doctor, and within a day I felt better.  I suspect that my incapacity was due to oysters that I had eaten at Heathrow before we took off for Los Angeles.
            We travelled south by coach, and arrived in Rotorua where we were entertained by Maori singers and dancers at our hotel. However before that happened we had to temporarily vacate the hotel because there had been an earthquake warning which put us on the street for a short while.  Happily there were no further such warnings whilst we were in that town.
            One particularly interesting activity in Rotorua was a sheep demonstration at a farming exhibition centre in which various breeds of sheep were displayed in a pyramid shaped structure which each would leave after its features had been explained by the demonstrator. At the end of that display we were treated to a demonstration of a dog herding sheep in which no words were spoken by the dog handler, but instructions given by whistle blows.
            Our coach then took us further South to Wellington, the capital of New Zealand where we saw what is purported to be the largest wooden building in the world, the old parliament building.  From Wellington we said goodbye to North Island and took, in surprisingly stormy seas (Well surprising to me) the ferry to South Island.
            From South Island we went whale watching in a launch owned and operated by Maoris, which took us quite close to a whale as it rested on the surface of the sea.
            The first major city that we visited in North Island was Christchurch which I found very attractive, particularly the Anglican cathedral, which many years later was to be devastated by an earthquake, but when I saw it, it was still a most impressive building.
            From Christchurch we travelled west by train to the Franz Josep Glacier which we flew over by helicopter, actually landing on an ice field where I took several photographs. We then travelled further South to Duneden, North Island‘s second major city where we visited a mansion that had been the home of a wealthy Jewish piano manufacturer until the only surviving member of the family, the daughter of the manufacturer, had given it to the New Zealand nation. I felt rather sorry for that lady, her brother, who should have inherited the estate had been killed in action during the first world war; and she had never married for in Dunedon there had not been any Jewish suitors to satisfy her parents’ standards; when her parent’s died she was left alone in a large house to live out her days with her memories.      
            From Duneden we travelled south to Queenstown, where we stayed near the site where the J. R. Tolkien film The Lord of the Rings was made.   When I looked down at the site from a hilltop I was impressed by the ingenuity of the film’s designer, who somehow managed to prevent the fact that a modern highway bisected the site, from appearing on the screen.   During this trip we were also shown how gold prospectors panned for gold in rivers, which I found quite interesting.
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            Some time later I went on a river cruise on the Danube with Bill Scott, which proved to be the last holiday that I should have with Bill.
            We flew to Vienna, where we boarded a new cruise ship, The Joseph Haydn, which had a large statue of the composer in the centre of the entrance chamber.
            The cruise was all the way to the mouth of the river then back to Vienna, stopping at various capitals on the way; the first of which was the capital of Slovakia, Bratislava. We went ashore in Bratislava, but I wasn’t very impressed by it.  Budapest I loved, though it was not my first visit to that beautiful city. Either Bucharest or Sofia, had the most horrendous traffic problems, but I can’t remember which city had the greatest snarl up. In Belgrade we visited a new Orthodox cathedral which was still in the process of being built, and also saw collections of arms which had been part of the city’s defence: some modern, and some very old. Most of the places that we visited were very interesting; but I did not enjoy this cruise as much as I had enjoyed my previous cruise on the Dneiper in Ukraine.
            Later on, without Bill Scott, I took a cruise to the Baltic, joining the ship, a huge Norwegian vessel, at Dover. My cabin was very comfortable, even though it had no windows, but the ship was so large that I found it almost intimidating.  I think I must have walked miles along corridors from my cabin to the dining saloon, which was on another deck.  Full board was included in the price of the tour, but there were several restaurants on board where one was charged extra for food if one used them.  I ate in them a couple of times during the cruise which added considerably to my bill at the end.
            Payment was in US dollars, and the whole ambience of the ship was very American, and there were many American passengers on board.
            From Dover we sailed to the Baltic, and once on that sea, we called at various capitals, including St Petersburg, Helsinki, Copenhagen, Stockholm and Oslo.  I went ashore at every stop, though, apart from Oslo, I had visited them all previously, though on my first visit to St. Petersburg it had been called Leningrad. The fall of the Soviet Union did not seem to have made much difference to the appearance of that city, though no one attempted to buy my clothes from me this time.
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            Another holiday that I took alone, I think using Page and Moy as the agency, was to Croatia. Our hotel was in the beautiful city of Dubrovnik. It was a fascinating place.  I  think that I found it more interesting than Venice, though that may have been something to do with the fact that the sun was shining whilst we were there, unlike the situation during my previous visit to Venice with Hildegard, when it was raining for part of the week of our visit.
            During this holiday I visited other parts of Croatia, including a place that claimed to be the birthplace of Marco Polo: the town of Corzola.
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            One sad event which took place in 2012 was the death of my old friend, Bill Scott. He had been ill for some time, and had had to give up his flat as it did not have a lift and he was unable to cope with the stairs to his flat on the top floor.
            He had been in hospital, where I had managed to visit him, but had moved out, and was living in a block with staff who provided his food and looked after him, but his condition deteriorated and he died.
            Stephen drove me to the funeral in Guildford, which had been organised by his niece. Most of the mourners were his Guildford friends, from the Catholic church there, and from the local Labour Party where he had been secretary, but apart from Stephen and me, and his niece, the only other mourner from the old days was Veronica Mansfield, who had been with us at teachers’ college, and had been his girl friend whilst there, and had previously been my girl friend.
            Veronica promised to keep in touch, and, since then I have had occasional e-mails from her.
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            Two or three years ago I was in the Age Concern premises in Wood Street about to see the chiropodist when I was suddenly taken ill.  An ambulance was called by the chiropodist and I was taken to the hospital, where I was in for one night.  Apparently I had suffered a minor stroke and I was examined by a consultant who prescribed warfarin which I have been taking regularly ever since, which has also necessitated regular visits to a medical centre for blood tests. I find taking warfarin and blood tests inconvenient, but I supposed that it is something that I should accept at my advanced age. This disability does not seem to have affected me greatly, and I am still able to go on holiday.
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            One such holiday was a tour organised by Titan Tours to the western United States.  It was entitled California and the Golden West. It began with a flight to Los Angeles, from where a coach took us to San Diego, which, as it was the rush hour with lots of traffic, took us quite a long time.
            After a night in a comfortable hotel, next day we went on a cruise of the vast harbour, which was a main base for the US Navy. San Diego is on the border with Mexico, and before the harbour cruise I had my lunch in a Mexican restaurant, during which I drank my first Margarita, which was far too large. After the cruise I had a ride along the harbour front in a cycle rickshshaw, and after that returned to the coach which took us back to the hotel.
            I liked San Diego very much. I t  is the second largest city in California,      We next drove East to Phoenix, the state capital of Arizona, by way of Yuma.  Phoenix was rather a disappointment to me, I found it a rather boring city. After one night there, we left to drive to Flagstaff by way of Sedona, stopping on the way to take photographs of the magnificent red rock scenery, and also to visit an Amex cinema where we saw a film about the Grand Canyon. When we arrived at the Flagstaff hotel where we were to spend the night, we were welcomed with individual glasses of champagne.
            After one night in Sedona we drove on to Las Vegas where we stayed in a vast hotel.  We were taken to see Las Vegas by night, which I did not enjoy.  The stay in that city was the highlight for many of my fellow travellers, but not for me.  I found it garish, vulgar and phoney and resented being there; which was more or less what I had expected when I booked this tour.
            Next day we were driven to the Hoover Dam which was an awe inspiring construction, though after we had seen it, we were driven back to Las Vegas for another night in that Mecca of bad taste.
            We left next morning for a drive that took us to the ghost town of Calico which had been a prosperous mining town until the price of silver had fallen and its silver mine had closed which meant that the population were unemployed and left the town to seek fortune elsewhere. From Calico we drove out of Nevada, and were back in the state of California, where we spent one night in Visalia before driving on to the spectacular Yosemite National Park where we stopped for lunch before continuing to our next night’s stop,  Sonoro.
            Next day we drove west from Sonoro to the capital of alternative life style, San Francisco, getting there by about 10.30 in the morning.  This was my second visit to the city, I had been there before with Hildegard when we were on our way round the world from Australia. This time I went on a cruise round the harbour, passing Alcatraz and going under the Golden Gate bridge whilst drinking Irish coffee.
            When we disembarked I sat listening to a very talented busker, a saxophone player, and when he finished I gave him five dollars. I then reboarded our coach which took us on a very interesting tour of the city before dropping us at our hotel, The Holiday Inn.
            After a couple of nights in The Holiday Inn, we left San Francisco. We drove South, stopping for coffee, though I did not have any, at Cannery Row in Monterey which was the old Spanish capital of Lower California, we then drove further South along the famous Seventeen Mile Drive to Carmal where we stopped for lunch, which for me was clam chowder and a glass of white wine. After lunch we continued, reaching our destination after dark, the town of Cambria and our hotel, the Cambria Pines Lodge.
            We had one night in that hotel, and next morning we drove south again. Our first stop was at a phoney Danish Town that had several windmills, the like of which I had never seen when I had visited Denmark.  I think the creators of this fantasy may have confused Denmark with Holland. We continued our journey south, stopping to take photos of the Santa Barbara mission, and then continued our journey to our final destination at Anaheim, a city of over 300,000 inhabitants in Orange County, adjacent to the city of Los Angeles.  Indeed it is so close to Los Angeles that when I was there I could not discover where one city ended and the other began.
            Next morning, with other tour members, I visited Universal Studios, which seemed to have the same degree of good taste as that other haven of propriety, Las Vegas: however I did join the others on a ride that took in various activities in the studios, including the re-enactment of parts of a recent King Kong movie.
            Lunch was in a very good Mexican restaurant where I ate spicy chicken wings, and after lunch we returned to the studios where we saw a spectacular waterworks show, which convinced me that I would not enjoy the film on which it was based.
            We spent another couple of days in and around Anaheim, and on the final day visited Hollywood, which I did not find particularly interesting. From there we went to the airport and boarded our flight which took off for our 12 hour journey back home at 4 p.m.
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            In February 2012 I went on holiday to Egypt, flying from Heathrow to Cairo on EgyptAir. I had to get up early to be in time for the Titan Tours car, but was at the airport by 10.25, and in the air before lunch.   I had a good lunch on the plane, though not the glass of wine that I would enjoyed as alcohol is not served on EgyptAir, but the glass of orange juice was an almost acceptable substitute. After I had eaten I watched an episode of Fraser.
            Our flight lasted three and a half hours, and after we landed we met our tour manager, a cheerful Coptic Christian, who told us to call him Ash, which was only the first part of his name, as he didn’t think we would have been able to pronounce the rest of it.
            A minibus took us to our hotel, The Cairo Marriatt, which was vast but very comfortable, though we had a lot of walking to get to our rooms, which were on the 18th floor of one of the two hotel tower blocks.
            From the window of my room, I had an excellent view of the Nile, and the tall buildings on either side of its banks.
            This was to be my second visit to Cairo.  My first had been in 1945, when I arrived as a British soldier, and did not stay in a comfortable hotel, but lived for a couple of weeks in a tent at an army base.  I suspected that as a paying tourist I would be rather more welcome than as a member of what was then an army of occupation.
            I did not get to bed until 11.45 but slept very well.
            Next morning, after breakfast we were introduced to Achmed, our Muslim tour guide. He was very helpful and knowledgeable, and we soon realised how lucky we were to have him.
            With Achmed we visited the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, which was interesting, for it contained many exhibits from the Old Kingdom, including some from the tomb of Tutankahmun; though it was extremely tiring, for within it there were numerous stairs to ascend and descend, and almost a total lack of chairs on which we could rest.
            From the Museum we were taken to the Citadel of Mohammed Ali and entered the huge alabaster mosque which I did not find quite as interesting as the Great Mosque that I had visited in Damascus several years previously.
            We were then taken to the Khan al Khalili Bazaar, which I did not enter, but sat with Ash drinking fruit juice.  When the others returned with their purchases, Achmed and Ali took us to a restaurant where we had authentic Egyptian food for lunch, and I drank two glasses of red wine, my first alcohol since I had begun this holiday.
            Back in the hotel Achmed discussed our programme for the next day, and I went to the snack bar for supper, and ordered a tasty beef sandwich.  It was supposed to be a small sandwich, but I have no idea what a large sandwich would have been like for it was so big that I could not eat all of it.
            Next morning, after breakfast we were taken to Sakara and entered the tomb of a princess, and then drove on to Memphis where I was inveigled by a wily Arab in to passing him my camera so that he could take a photograph of me wearing an Arab head-dress, for which privilege I parted with 150 Egyptian pounds; the equivalent of £15 sterling.
            After that we were taken to a restaurant for lunch, with which I drank an excellent local beer.
            After lunch we were taken to view the pyramids at Giza.  I took a photo of the Great Pyramid, though could not get the top in my picture.  Some of our party entered the pyramid, but I did not as that would have entailed climbing many step, so I remained in the coach as I did when we were driven to view the Sphinx.  However I did leave the coach at the next stop where we were taken into a factory to see how papyrus was made.
            After that the group split up, and those of us going to a sound and light performance in front of the Sphinx and Pyramids were taken in another minibus and driven to a café where we had to climb two flights of steps to the first floor where we were given drinks, in my case orange juice, and given tickets to the open air auditorium for the evening’s performance. We were next taken to the auditorium where it was quite cold and several of us hired blankets which we draped over our shoulders whilst watching and listening to the extremely impressive spectacle.
            It began to rain towards the end of the performance, but we were not too damp when we were back on our bus and returning to the hotel.
            In a hotel shop I purchased a hat decorated with images of Egypt and the words ‘Welcome to Egypt’ inscribed on the brim. Chatting with fellow guests I had a glass of red wine, then walked with them from the hotel to a restaurant for supper, and after eating returned to the hotel and to my room to sleep on my last night in Cairo.
            Next morning we left the hotel and were taken to the airport where we boarded a plane for the one hour flight to Luxor. In Luxor we were taken to the Sonesta St George Hotel, which looked Edwardian, but was very comfortable.  I liked Luxor,  which was nothing like as hot as I had feared that it would be.
            Next morning we were taken by minibus across the Nile to the Valley of the Kings where we looked at the tomb of Ramossose IV, which I found interesting, but so tiring that I sat on a seat whilst my companions went to inspect two more tombs.  However I joined them on a visit tot he tomb of Queen Hatshepsut, but I did not enter the tomb, for the entrance was at the top of a steep staircase which I dared not attempt. Whilst the others were inside the tomb, I sat in a café drinking orange juice.
            We next paid a visit to an alabaster factory which I found very interesting, and after that we looked at two monoliths which I photographed before driving to a restaurant for lunch. Back at the hotel I went to the Japanese restaurant for a light supper with a glass of wine, and after that I went to bed at 9.15, which was very early for me, but after that busy day I was extremely tired, and soon fell asleep.
            Next morning I was up at 6.15, and, after breakfast we left the hotel and were taken to the Temple of Karnac, which was vast and magnificent, but extremely hard on the feet. I think I must have walked over two miles in the temple, assisted at times by Ash and my companions.
            The next visit was to the Temple of Luxor, but I was so footsore, that I stayed on the bus reading Granta whilst my companions visited that temple.
            After that we were driven to our ship, The Nile Dolphin, which was quite luxurious and almost like a floating hotel. I was given a comfortable cabin on the second deck near the entrance which meant that I only had to descend one set of stairs to get to the dining saloon on the first deck. Lunch was very tasty, and after lunch I sat in my cabin watching television news and after that a film.
            I then handed in laundry at reception and posted a card that I had written to Pam. I then went to the lounge bar on the fourth deck and chatted to friends whilst drinking beer. Back in my cabin I read more of Granta, then watched a rather silly romantic film before going to the dining saloon for supper, after which I went to the lounge bar to attend a promised disco, but it did not take place so I sat there for a while chatting to other passengers and drinking a cocktail before going to bed.
            In all that time the  ship had not moved, and we were still tied  up at Luxor. 
            Next morning we were still moored in Luxor, and after breakfast a minibus took us to the Luxor Museum, which with very few steps, and ramps between floors was much easier on the feet than had been the Cairo Museum of Antiquities. The exhibits, chiefly ancient Egyptian artefacts, though with some Coptic Christian items, were well displayed with explanations in both Arabic and English.
            Back on the ship I read Granta before lunch, and after lunch dozed in my cabin for a while.
            At seven I was in the lounge bar with others for a cocktail evening, during which we were introduced to the captain and other members of the ship’s staff.  We were each given a cocktail named after the ship, which contained rose wine and orange juice.  I thought that it was rather insipid.
            We then went to the dining saloon for supper and after that I reluctantly purchased an Egyptian garment which I will be expected to wear at a function tomorrow.
            Next morning I was up early and had breakfast before our first visit which was to begin at 8.  It was by horse drawn carriage and was quite cold. I realised that I should have worn a jacket.
            We visited the Eldo Temple of Horris, which was magnificent though walking was difficult for me as the paving stones were uneven and there were stairs to climb.
            Back on the ship I climbed for the first time to the top open air deck which had a splendid swimming pool, which I did not use.  From there I watched our departure from Eldo.
            Down in the lounge bar I bought a bottle of water and drank a gin and tonic before lunch.
            At 4 p.m., the others left to visit another temple, but I remained in my cabin reading the February Prospect.
            At 7 I donned my Egyptian costume  and joined my similarly garbed companions for a group photograph, after which, still dressed as locals we had an Egyptian themed supper.
            The next morning the ship had arrived at Aswan                         
            I was up at six and after breakfast a minibus took us through Aswan, a city that with over one million inhabitants, was much larger than I had expected. We were driven to the High Dam and Lake Nassar, the largest man made lake in the world.  The Dam was very impressive, though not so much as the Hoover Dam which I had seen on my Western American holiday.
            From there we returned to the Nile, and on a motor boat were taken to the Pilae Temple,  which had been raised to save it from submersion when the Dam was built. The temple was fascinating, but its uneven pavements and many steps tired me so much that I did not take the next trip on a bus to a perfumery factory.    
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            On 10th October, 1912, at Tilbury, I boarded a cruise liner, The Marco Polo, for another Titan Tours holiday, a cruise of the Mediterranean.
            The Marco Polo, which had been built in East Germany, had been called The Pushkin, and been designed as an ice breaker, though, so far as I knew, had never performed that service.  Now she had become a very comfortable cruise liner.
            I had not brought my wheels with me, because Titan Tours had said that they could not be used on the ship.  That was incorrect for I saw that several other passengers did use wheels. However, as I had brought my walking stick I was able to get about without too much difficulty, both on the ship and when I went ashore.
            I had a light lunch and a beer, and then, after a boat drill we set sail.
            After I had made bookings for several of the tours which would take place, I returned to my cabin, unpacked, and then dozed for a while on my bed.
            Supper was excellent.  Next to me sat Gordon, a retired Welsh Anglican clergyman who was a great conversationalist.  After the meal we sat talking with Gordon doing most of the conversation, whilst I drank a Bloody Mary.
            That night I slept well, and next morning was up at 7 a.m. After my shower and shave I ate a cooked breakfast in the dining saloon, then back in my cabin read the Guardian Review until, at 10.30, I attended a meeting with other single passengers which was followed by an excellent lunch. After lunch I was in the Scott Bar for a group singing lesson which I found rather soporific
            In the evening there was to be a formal dinner, so in my cabin I put on my dress suit and shirt, and, with the help of the steward, my bow tie.   As I had forgotten to pack a shoe horn I could not get on my black shoes, so instead wore open toed sandals, and hoped that no one looked down at my feet.
            Before the supper we met the captain and the other officers and had a formal photograph taken.   I was at the second sitting for supper, and was surprised at the number of empty spaces at the tables.  Clearly many passengers were not present for the formal supper, which may have been something to do with the fact that the ship had been rolling somewhat in the rough seas. I had no problems eating my meal.
            Afterwards, back in my cabin I watched the film, Enchanted before going to bed.   
            For all the next day we were at sea, sailing South towards Lisbon.
            I attended a briefing about excursions that I found rather soporific. I attended lunch with other single passengers, drank two glasses of red wine, returned to my cabin where I read Prospect and later watched a film Taken in which Liam Neason played a former intelligence agent who goes to Paris to rescue his daughter who has been captured by White Slavers. Single handed he manages to kill several of them and rescue his daughter.  It was a unlikely story, but quite entertaining.
            Next morning, after I had eaten breakfast, I saw that the ship had arrived in Lisbon.
            After an excellent lunch of moussaka I went ashore and boarded a coach  for the Southern Hills excursion, which took us out of the city to the adjacent hills.  There was lots of beautiful countryside, and I took many photographs.
            Back on board, after we had sailed, I watched a rather uninteresting film on television before going to supper; and after supper, with a partner I took part in a session of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, in which my partner and I managed to win a million: though it wasn‘t a real million, instead we were given winner’s badges which we could wear round our necks if we wished.  I did not so wish.                                                                                                     
            Our next port of call was Tangier in Morocco.
            I went ashore and boarded a coach which was to take us into the Kasbar and Medina.  I had chosen this particular excursion because it was indicated that it would involve rather less walking than other excursions offered..  I don’t know whether that was really the case, but certainly when I left the coach I found that there was a great deal of walking entailed over uneven ground, and there were times when I thought that I would not be able to continue. We walked for over an hour on many uneven paths with lots of steps and many tricky slopes, and, but for the assistance I received from fellow passengers, I don’t think that I would have been able to proceed.
            Finally, at the suggestion of the guide I sat at a café table drinking coffee whilst the others continued on foot for about another hour.  When they returned the coach took us back to the ship, though boarding that entailed another considerable walk for the coach set us down some distance from where it was moored.     
            We left North Africa and sailed North, and our next port of call was Malaga in Spain. I went ashore on a excursion labelled Leisurely Malaga, in which I was quite comfortable as it did not entail any strenuous walking.
            I did not go ashore at our next stop, Catagena but spent time in my cabin, watching the brilliant Alfred Hitchcock film Psycho, and reading Granta; though before we sailed I did go on deck and took some photos of the harbour.
            We sailed on to Palma where I went on a coach tour of Majorca, which I found startlingly beautiful.  Unfortunately my camera misfunctioned so that I could not take any photographs of that beauty.
            Back on board I took my camera to reception where they recharged the battery so that I was able to take some more photographs.                             
            Next day we were at Gibraltar, a territory that I had chosen not to visit during a previous visit with Hilde to Southern Spain.
            This time I went ashore on the Gibraltar Panorama and Tapas Tour in which we were driven round the peninsula until we reached the spot where we were supposed to feast on Tapas.  Unfortunately, that proved impossible, as there had been a mechanical fault in the oven of the restaurant and no tapas had been cooked.
            Our guide apologised profoundly and we were told that instead we were to be taken to the top of the rock where we might see the Barbary Apes.  I was quite pleased about this as I had been afraid that eating tapas might have ruined my lunch.
            I enjoyed the ascent, and was able to take some good photos at the top, of the harbour and of the Barbary Apes.
            Later we were told that as we had not had the tapas promised, we would receive back half the fee that we had paid for that excursion.
            Back on the ship, at lunch I sat with a ninety-three year old ex RAF Man who proved a stimulating conversationalist.
            Supper was the first unsatisfactory meal that I had on the ship, but I made up for that by drinking wine, to the extent that before I went to bed, in the saloon I joined another elderly idiot singing Chattanooga Choo Choo as it was being played on a piano.                
            After Gibraltar we had a day at sea before reaching Corona in North West Spain.  I went ashore there, but found it rather boring compared with other places we had visited on this cruise. Then followed another day at sea until two days later we were at Tilbury where we disembarked at the end of the cruise. Apart from my walking problems in Tangier and my boredom in Corona, I had found it most enjoyable.         
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            My next cruise began on my seventy-sixth birthday when I flew from Heathrow on a British Airways Air Bus to Barcelona from where I boarded the cruise liner, Norwegian Spirit for a cruise to Madeira and the Canary Islands.         
            Boarding, I found somewhat difficult, and I regretted not having bought my wheels.  My cabin was on the sixth deck of this huge thirteen deck ship. After I had put away my things, I joined the other guests for lunch during which it was disclosed that this was my birthday and several of the stewards sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me.
            After lunch we had the customary boat drill, during which I talked to an Austrian passenger whose English was much better than my limited German.
            Supper was another three course meal, and after supper I attended a karioki session in Harry’s Pub at which a very talented Dubliner and an almost equally talented Manchunian sang.  I did not.
            In the Starlight Theatre on Deck 7 I watched a brilliant performance by a juggler, before returning to my cabin where I was about to undress when my steward arriving bringing a huge slice of cake that been provided for my birthday.
            I ate part of it before I turned in. 
            I slept well that night, and when I awoke we were at sea.
            I had a cooked breakfast in the buffet on Deck 12, and after breakfast, in the Internet room on the same deck, attempted, without success, to retrieve some of my E-mail.  All that I managed to retrieve was a letter that I had written to the Guardian in 1999.
            At Reception on Deck 7 I picked up a list of shore excursions, then took part in a quiz in which I performed badly.
            For lunch I went to the suche bar and had a Japanese style meal, which was a mistake, as I did not manage to finish it.
            After lunch I addressed four postcards for the family and Pam, then dozed in my cabin for the rest of the afternoon, then, after supper, in Harry’s Pub I drank a gin and tonic whilst listening to more karioki.
            We were still at sea all the next day.
            At Reception I posted the cards that I had written, then took part in a geographical quiz in which I managed twelve out of fifteen correct answers.  After that I watched, though did not participate in, a demonstration of belly dancing.
            At the end of the day I listened to a performance by four magnificent Spanish male singers.
            Next morning I was up early because the ship had reached Madeira and I had booked for a tour of the island, which began after breakfast.
            I saw that Madeira is a very beautiful island, hilly and extensively cultivated, which is a credit to the Portuguese settlers, who misplaced the native inhabitants when they arrived in the 15th century. The cultivation seems to continue up to the very tops of the hills. Various products are grown on the cultivated land, but in particular bananas, and the grapes from which the famous Madeira wine is made.
            At the end of our tour of the island we were taken to a wine producing establishment where we were each given two glasses of very sweet Madeira wine to drink, and encouraged to buy more wine there.  Many passengers did buy wine.  I did not.
            Back on the ship it was time for lunch, which for me was meatless as today was a Friday.  That evening, in the theatre, I watched a performance by a brilliant illusionist, Cripten, who was assisted by Renata, his beautiful assistant.  His tricks were quite baffling. I suspect that some of the students that I had taught in Malawi would have thought that they were genuine magic.
            Next day we docked at Santa Cruz in the Canary Islands.
            At 9.30 I went ashore and joined the bus for a tour of Northern Island views.
            I was surprised at the size of the city of Santa Cruz, though we did not remain their long but soon driving North and passing the university which seemed quite large.  I was surprised that there was a university, though I later learnt that there are three universities in the Canary Islands.
            The island looked very prosperous, with lots of building and cultivation. It could have been part of mainland Spain, though most of the islanders, though Spanish, have some traces of the original population in their ancestry
            Our guide spoke perfect English with an American accent, which was not surprising as she came from Connecticut, though now lived on the island and had a Spanish husband.
            She was a delightful person, and towards the end of the tour I had a long conversation with her as we sat drinking wine together in a café.
            Back on the ship I had supper in the French restaurant, La Bistro, where the food was good and I was the only patron.  I had to pay $25 for the privilege of eating there.
            In the evening I saw a performance, Show time on Broadway, which was energetic, noisy and repetitive, and not up to he standard of previous performances that I had enjoyed in that theatre.                                                                                                                                            The next day we were due to visit Lanzarote, but in the morning we were told that due to adverse weather conditions we would not be able to dock there so the ship had to abandon the Canary Islands and return to Spain.
            Then followed four more days at sea until we docked at Barcelona, where we boarded our plane and returned to Heathrow where I found the Titan Tours driver waiting for me and was driven home.
            On the way he stopped, at my request at an ATM as I was short of cash.  There, as I was getting out of the car, I managed to catch my wrist in the door as I was closing it, and cut it badly.  It began to bleed heavily, but the driver covered the cut with a plaster that stemmed the bleeding, but when I got home I got another taxi to take me to A & E at the hospital where the wound was properly dressed.
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            Fairly soon after my return I had some bad news. I learnt that my cousin Gussy O’Sullivan had died. We had not been particularly close, though he was almost the same age as me.  I had seen him for the first time for many years a few months previously when I had attended the funeral of his sister Pauline, at Frinton-on-Sea where he lived with his wife.
            Like me he had been in the civil service, and had been a senior immigration officer before retirement. Unlike me, he had been obsessed with cricket and, when he could manage it, had attended cricket matches at Lords and had been a member of the M.C.C.
            It is some weeks since I have attended the Friday meeting cinema performances for elderly people.  I used to get there by taxi where I would meet my friend, Pam, and at the end of the performance she would take me home in her car. However, Pam, who is in her seventies and has multiple sclerosis, has been too ill of late to get there in her car.
            I have visited her a number of times in the old peoples’ home to where she has moved after selling her home, and have also taken her out by taxi to have lunch is a restaurant.  She seems a little better now, and is hoping to move to live with her son in Australia if she can get a visa, though she is worried that her age and medical condition may prevent that from happening.
            My health is rather better than Pam’s even though I am older than she is; but I can no longer walk very far, and when I do, it is with the help of the set of wheels that my children have given me. Recently the use of those wheels and my own foolishness caused me to have a nasty accident.
            I was in the Royal Victoria Place shopping precinct and I wanted to ascend to another floor.  There is a perfectly good lift in the precinct, but rather than wait for the lift, I tried to use the escalator, pushing my wheels in front of me as I entered it.  Very quickly the wheels had toppled over and I toppled with them and lay on my back at the base of the escalator, and could not get up until I was helped by passers by.
            I was treated by paramedics who wanted to take me to the hospital, but I didn’t think I was hurt badly enough to justify that, though I had a cut on my neck and another on my knee.  The paramedics had dressed the wounds, though not before blood had stained my shirt.
            I took a taxi home, but once home I saw that my neck was bleeding again, so I took another taxi to the hospital, where my wounds were redressed at A and E. Because I have to take wolverine every day, my blood is thin, and when I bleed it does not clot easily so I should be more careful and try to avoid cutting myself.
            My children worry about the number of times that I have fallen over, and, on their advice I asked my doctor to arrange appointments for me at the falls clinic, which she had done, and a psychotherapist came to my flat and examined me, and I shall be attending the falls clinic soon.
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            To celebrate Caitlin’s fifth birthday the whole family, apart from Tom, had supper in an Italian restaurant, Il Vesuvio, in Camden Road.  I had never been to this restaurant before, but I expect that I will visit it again, for it was a very enjoyable occasion.  Caitlin was given a cake with lighted candles, and we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to her.
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            On the 19th May, 2013, at St Augustine’s Church I was at a special mass held to celebrate 175 years since the establishment of the Catholic parish of Tunbridge Wells.  The celebrant was the Archbishop of Southwark, assisted by lots of priests.   The church was packed and both the Mayor and the MP, who are not Catholic were present.
            After the mass I walked to The Prince of Wales pub, where I had lunch, but after lunch I had an accident.  I decided to leave by the back entrance which lead to Royal Victoria Place, which proved to be a very foolish decision, for it entailed descending by two stairs before leaving the building.  I had my wheels with me, but they toppled over as I attempted to descend, and I toppled with them, and could not get up until helped by David Neve, the leader of the Liberal Democrats on the Borough Council, who happened to be in the pub, who then helped me on further stairs once I was out of the building.
            I took a taxi home, but once I was home I realised that I had been injured by the fall. I had a bloody bruise on my right leg, a smaller one on my left leg, and a painful bruise on my left shoulder.  The latter pained me all through the day, and when I went to bed prevented me from sleeping properly.
            On Monday I phone Kate to tell her that I would not be able to visit her that day, and phoned the doctor about my injuries.  The doctor was on holiday, but her locum came to me, prescribed painkillers but said that the pain would last several days. I took the painkillers, paracetemals, and the pain did begin to diminish, but it was still suffering with it two days later.