A summer holiday

I have recently returned from a trip to the UK and Europe. I was gone for 5 weeks. Although it was the depths of winter, the weather was warm (26 deg) and sunny when I left Cape Town. I flew BA into terminal 5 at Heathrow, where I was met by a friend who drove me into London for a spot of breakfast. The great thing about flying that route is that there is no jet lag. Despite the long flight, 12 hours, give or take, the time difference is only one hour and thus one is able to sleep through the night. Even though I am tall, 1.93m, (6’ 4”), I found the leg room to be adequate and though I know it is unfashionable to say so, I rather enjoy airline food.

I was staying with a sister in Chiswick, and so having dumped my bags there, I headed off to have lunch with my brother near.in Northumberland Avenue. He is the senior partner of a large firm of country solicitors that is making in roads into the traditionally City market. We walked from his office in Northumberland Avenue to the Liberal Club where he is a recently joined member (traitor). However, they would not let me in as I was wearing jeans, so we went Italian instead.

It had been 4 years since I was last in the UK. I had hated almost every minute of that trip and had vowed not to return to the country for as long as I could remain away. But I have a large extended family and many friends there, all of whom I love dearly. So I packed away my misgivings and made the trip as they were quite obviously not coming out to see me, any time soon.

As it turned out, I found London to be on good form (I am afraid I am London-centric and tend to equate England with London and vice versa. Non Londoners, please forgive me.) There seemed to be a positive attitude. I put that down to the fact that New Labour had been swept from power and perhaps the optimism was mine rather than everybody else’s. In any event I enjoyed being there.

I spent the next 10 days visiting people in and around London and the Home Counties, before heading off to Italy to visit another brother who has recently moved there. He together with his wife and family left Zimbabwe when the faecal matter began to hit the fan 10 years ago. She wanted out, though he is an African through and through and would much rather be here than in Europe. After a decade of slogging it out in England, they compromised by moving to Italy.

They have bought a couple of cottages on opposite sides of a courtyard in a very remote medieval village in the mountains of Tuscany about an hour’s drive north east of La Spezia. It is very beautiful and they have wonderful views, but it is, as I say, remote.

My sister in law was a way while I was there, but he and I had much to catch up on. We went for walks and ate, drank and talked a great deal. One day he drove me down to Lerici on the coast. It is a very town perched on the edge of a mountainous coastline. As you can imagine, it can get pretty darn hot in August.

After five days we left together to visit more of my family who have a villa in the Dolomites near Trento. We drove there in an old furniture truck that had come down from England. With a top speed of 100 kph (60 mph) we made slow progress, but as the scenery is so stunning it did not matter.

The villa is large and sleeps about 20 people in ‘shabby-chic’ conditions. That part of Italy was much fought over in the first world war and the house bares bullet holes dating from that conflict. The mother of one my brothers in law was Italian and hence the connection. The property used to belong to her family until he and my sister purchased it together with another sister and her husband. Mine is a big family.

The village is situated on the south facing side of a valley in the Trentino. There are some splendid walks and lakes, not to mention dozens of ancient towns and villages to explore. Bolzano is more Austrian(German speaking) than Italian. Bassano del Grappa has a wonderful ‘ponte vecchio’ and some terrific restaurants. Trento itself is full of history and notable for being the location for the ‘Council of Trent’ in the 16^th century. Essentially this involved lots of Catholic bishops getting together for a bit of Protestant bashing.

I had been intending to fly back to London, but brother-in-law asked me to drive the van back with him. So, early one damp morning we set out along the Adige Valley and headed north towards the Austrian border. Again the stunning scenery amply compensated the slow rate at which we were able to drive. Along the way we passed the partially submerged bell tower in Rechensee.

In Austria we were stopped by the police, just as we were about to enter Germany. Unbeknownst to us, we were supposed to have purchased a motorway pass. We were fined E120 for having failed to do so. That really is something of a racket. There were no obvious signs informing us of the requirement and the penalty was, we both felt, unduly harsh. Still that’s life.

It took us two days to get back to London. Along the way we listened to a variety of music including Carmina Burana, Abba and Kenneth McKellar. With regards to the latter, we felt the sounds of Scotland were appropriate for the mountains of Austria. We also listened to an audio book, Virgil and Beatrice, or is it the other way round, the latest offering of Yann Martell.(Life of Pi). An interesting book, though riddled with clichés and observations of the bleeding obvious. But enjoyable nevertheless. Actually the most annoying thing about it was the fact that the reader was a Canadian who, as Canadians do, kept pronouncing ‘about’ as ‘a boat’ and ‘buoy’ as ‘booie’. Good way to pass a long journey, though.

We spent a night in a small town in Germany on the border with Luxembourg. The place had nothing to recommend it.

Back in London, I hooked up with some more friends. I went to the West End to see a play called War Horse which was excellent.

While in Italy, I had taken a bet with another brother in law. He is a passionate supporter of the England cricket team and was convinced that England would achieve a clean sweep in the Pakistan Test series. In any event, he foolishly offered me odds of 25 to 1 on England winning the third test. Or rather I bet that Pakistan would win it. With a £10 stake I stood to make a handsome profit. In the event, he sent me an email congratulating me on my win and asked me to which Flood relief charity he should send my winnings. Under the circumstances I could hardly claim the money for myself, but said that he should send it to a charity called the Mdala Trust which helps destitute Rhodesian pensioners.

The ease with which Pakistan won that test adds weight to the accusations that they have been deliberately throwing matches.

Anyway, fun though my trip was, it is good to be back in Cape Town.