City of a tree, a bird, a fish and a bell: a boy, a cemetery and a church

Glasgow: tough, rough and mean?

Think of Glasgow and what do you think of: the Glasgow kiss (a greeting with a head butt), alcohol-fuelled street brawls, sectarian violence between Celtic and Rangers supporters and thick, threatening, indecipherable accents. You might think of a sprawling urban mess, notoriously dysfunctional high-rise flats, 70’s concrete monstrosities and dark, forbidding sandstone Victorian tenement buildings and other utilities blackened by decades of pollution. Poverty.

You might think of bad, bad food: iron brew, a nuclear-orange sugar-fuelled drink, the deep-fried Mars bars (surely an urban myth?), bloody black pudding, haggis consisting of the parts most butchers throw away, flat sausages, 90% fat and 10% meat, and sugar-packed cakes. Early death.

London it isn’t – nor Edinburgh. There’s nothing twee, contrived, touristy or pretty-pretty about Glasgow. Glasgow is down-to-earth, has real character. It’s smart, gritty, witty, vibrant and alive. It’s the genuine article.

Glasgow has had its ups and downs. It’s easy to forget it was once called the ‘Empire’s second city,’ it was a thriving industrial city full of sea merchants, shipbuilders, tradesmen, entrepreneurs, inventors, ground-breaking scientists, artists and intellects.

Nowhere is this more evident than at the Necropolis in the Cathedral Quarter. I went there as a tourist and unwittingly returned my father-in-law to the place of his birth, finding myself touching a personal past. I had no idea. He lived in the shadows of the Cathedral and the atmospheric Victorian cemetery, a child of poverty among Glasgow’s great and good.

The cathedral area was Alan’s stamping ground. The gates of the Necropolis were kept locked, no doubt to keep young scallywags like him out. Hardly a deterrent, the street kids scaled the railings and crept in regardless, sometimes tearing their clothes on the railings. Once they dared each other to enter the cemetery after dark. They crept through Celtic crosses, obelisks, toppled urns, headless statues and mausoleums. They crept past writers (including the author of Wee Willie Winkie) and sculptors, rich industrialists, sea merchants and esteemed churchmen and a towering John Knox. Near the bottom, they saw a shadowy old woman attired in black. They glanced away and looked back again to find she was gone. The boys scarpered. My father-in-law, a man not usually given to flights of fancy, swears she was a ghost.

The Necropolis lies on a hill overlooking the city. All of Glasgow stretched out before us: the Tennent’s brewery close by, isolated tenement blocks, smaller brick-built houses, concrete offices and wind turbines on the moors, far on the horizon. Alan pointed out the place where his tenement home had once stood, long gone now. It had survived an incendiary bomb during the war (His mother, an ARP warden, had hosed down the fire in the attic herself) only for the building to be later demolished.

Atop the hill, a Victorian high-rise city of the dead, Glasgow’s elite sought to outdo their neighbour: with the largest family vault, the highest monument, the best quality stone, the most detailed mason work, the grandest sculpture or the finest inscription.

The gravestones are filled with story and history. I could have spent hours there uncovering lives like John Ronald Ker’s: accidentally drowned while shooting wildfowl from a small boat off Contyre of Ronaghan at the early age of 21 – of a generous and amiable disposition and endearing qualities which made him so agreeable a companion, so good and true a friend. (July 1868)

Making our way back down the hill, Alan showed us a wall with a 30 foot vertical drop. He and his pals had once skidded to an abrupt stop here as they had tried to out-run a police officer. The policeman caught up with the ragamuffins and apprehended them, taking delight in reading out every detail of graveyard vandalism over the entire week, although the boys’ singular crime had been ‘breaking and entering’.

We slipped out of the cemetery, over ‘the bridge of sighs’ into the cathedral. It’s an imposing Gothic church built in the Middle Ages. Saint Kentigern (more widely known as St Mungo) supposedly built the first Christian church in Scotland here.  The tomb of the saint lies in the lower crypt.

A stained glass tells the story of St Mungo and the miracles associated with him (symbols that form the Glasgow coat of arms):

The bird that never flew 
The tree that never grew

The bell that never rang

The fish that never swam

Another stained glass window pays homage to Glasgow’s tradesmen: bakers, barbers, bonnetmakers, bookmakers, coopers, cordiners, dyers, fleshers, gardeners, maltmen, masons, weavers and wood binders; crafts that are now largely confined to the annals of history.

Alan called us over to show us a neatly hand-scripted list of parish servicemen who had lost their lives during the war. He pointed to one of the names on the list: Driver: C Findley  RASC, and said: “My brother-in-law”.

“But Tom’s uncle died in the 80s,” I said in a puzzled voice. 

“I know,” said Alan. “It’s a mistake. Charlie took great delight in showing people his name on the memorial, claiming he was one of the living dead. He thought it a great joke.”

“But how did he end up on the list?”

“When he was evacuating to Dunkirk, on the run from the Germans, his truck took a wrong turn. He ended up on a beach some miles adrift from Dunkirk. Missing, it was presumed he was one of the Dunkirk dead.”

A fortuitous wrong turn indeed.

Glasgow survived the heavy bombardment of the Second World War and the decline of its manufacturing base, and is on the up again. It’s no coincidence that Glasgow was chosen to be ‘European City of Culture’ in 1990. Since then Glasgow has gone from strength to strength.

We visited the Clydeside, currently being regenerated with its smart new Riverside Museum, a theatre - the Armadillo, and the science museum tower.  Over in the West End we discovered a vibrant hub of fine eateries, trendy boutiques and night clubs set among the cleaned-up sandstone Victorian buildings; handsome historic university buildings and museums set in leafy parks and hilly bluffs.

We ate in ‘The Black Sheep’ and ‘Two Fat Ladies’ and tasted some of the best food I have ever had. Yes, Scottish fare: tatties and neeps, haggis, black pudding and sticky toffee pudding; food that was surprisingly light and full of flavour .

Glasgow: unpretentious, vivacious, humorous, plain-speaking, rough at the edges, but ultimately warm and generous, (A bit like my father-in-law, I discovered) - yet witty and intelligent. Go there, and you might have to rethink your view of the city. I had to.

Returning to Belfast

I've just come back from Northern Ireland. Recently, I've started using the trains again - and I'm discovering a new, vibrant Belfast.

Somehow, I have lost a quarter of a century between trains.

Back in the 1980s, the train from Lurgan to Belfast shuddered and creaked its way to the city. The seats were blighted with cigarette holes and knife slits, the floors covered in litter, the walls plastered with graffiti. Disaffected youths smoked in the no smoking compartments and no one dared challenge them. This was Northern Ireland at the height of the troubles: troubled, angry, defiant.

You ascertained where you were on your journey by peering through grimy windows. To disembark, you had to pull down the window, reach outside and twist the metal handle, pushing the heavy door outwards with all your might.

Here I am twenty-five years later, back on the train to Belfast. The new stock is state-of-the-art: shiny, clean, comfortable, smooth, fast.  Rolling neon lights flash up the destinations along the line.  A soothing English voice tells us our next stop. Automatic doors slide open effortlessly. The female voice recites the remaining destinations. Surely I must be in the home counties, not in my homeland?

But the names are the same:   Moira, Lisburn, Hilden, Lambeg, Derriaghy, Dunmurry, Finaghy, Balmoral, Adelaide and Great Victoria Street. They roll off the tongue like poetry.

I breathe out slowly, and soak in the past and the present. Across the way, a couple are speaking in the tongue of my childhood. A language half forgotten.  They punctuate every sentence with a verbal full stop.

“I’ve just got back from Australia - so I have.”

“I didn’t know that – I didn’t.”

“Loved it out there – aye.”

“You’re still in Finaghy – are you?”

“I am – aye.”

I smile to myself. When did my birthplace become a foreign country?

In Belfast, I met a friend at the City Hall. We dodge the ‘tour-of-the-troubles’ operators, touting for business.

Back in the eighties, you entered the main shopping area through a gated terrapin to be given a thorough body search – repeated in every store you entered. Shopping in the city wasn’t for the faint hearted. People in Derry refused to go to Belfast because they felt it was too dangerous. Belfast citizens wouldn’t go to Derry for the very same reason.

There is such an air of freedom and optimism now, I feel dizzy. We continue on to Victoria Square and the new centre with its glass dome offering 360 degree views: of the city, the river Lagan, the Lough, the sea beyond, and the Black Mountain on the skyline.

We walk on to the waterside. I had no idea it was so close to the city centre. During the troubles it was a forgotten wasteland.

By the Lagan, we gaze up at the Ring of Thanksgiving. The locals prefer to call it ‘The thing with the ring,’ ‘Nuala with the Hula’ or ‘The doll on the ball’. They have a way with words here. Peace and conciliation is the statue’s message.

I carry my fragile bundle of hope onto the train. Then it’s ten stops and home.

Boxing Day, Radio Derby and Coney Island

Boxing Day is an important date in the family calendar. My siblings (living in England), their children and now their Grandchildren (who would believe it!) gather together for a Boxing Day extravaganza. Every year, it gets bigger and bigger as our family grows and grows! For a couple of years, we even had some 'stray' Chinese girls (from my neice's Uni). They must have been highly bemused by the scale of our family - having no siblings themselves whatsoever.

Anyway, the day involves lots (and lots) of food, games, music and performances.
This year, I decided to make a 'Desert Island Disc' for each family.  (I stole the idea from a friend). Jamie, my son, and I then set about writing a quiz based on each family's choices. It was all great fun.

Whilst I was investigating the rules for Desert Island Discs, I noticed that the Radio 4 website was asking the public to send in their 'Desert Island Song' along with a story. Each local radio was going to do a regional programme, giving 'Joe Bloggs' a chance to hear a song that was close to his or her heart and tell an accompanying story. I sent a story I had already written about Van Morrison's Coney Island song-poem, and promptly forgot all about it.

A short time later, I had a phone call from a producer at the local radio. Would I come in and share my story? Would I not! I took the train to Derby and nervously told my story into the mike.
Some weeks later, our family sat round the radio (It had a real wartime feel to the occasion) and listened to my story on the radio. Strange to hear my own voice over the airwaves.

Here's the lyrics to the Van Morrison song I chose, and the story I sent into Radio Derby.

Coney Island

Coming down from Downpatrick
Stopping off at St. John's Point
Out all day bird watching
And the craic was good
Stopped off at Strangford Lough
Early in the morning
Drove through Shrigley taking pictures
And on to Killyleagh
Stopped off for Sunday papers at the
Lecale District, just before Coney Island

On and on, over the hill to Ardglass
In the jamjar, autumn sunshine, magnificent
And all shining through

Stop off at Ardglass for a couple of jars of
Mussels and some potted herrings in case
We get famished before dinner

On and on, over the hill and the craic is good
Heading towards Coney Island

I look at the side of your face as the sunlight comes
Streaming through the window in the autumn sunshine
And all the time going to Coney Island I'm thinking,
Wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time?

By Van Morrison (Click on the link below and listen to the music when reading the lyrics)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mn2CeHlKrTw

Try following Morrison’s route – it’s a geographical nonsense!

Artist’s licence?

Coney Island: In the footsteps of Van Morrison

“Dad, do you know where Coney Island is?" I asked.

Van Morrison’s Coney Island poem-song stirs something deep within my soul. Maybe it is the wall of dulcet orchestration. Maybe it is the poetry that perfectly captures those small moments of happiness. Maybe it’s hearing the lilting language of my Ulster childhood; words like ‘craic’ and ‘famished’.

“Coney Island?” my Dad replied. “Sure, Coney Island is on Lough Neagh.”

But Lough Neagh is nowhere near the places Morrison speaks of in his poem - which are all on, or near, the coast of County Down. Like Van Morrison, I have sweet memories of trips to the area around St John’s Point, Ardglass and Strangford Lough - but I’d never heard of Coney Island. And I had no idea where it was.

Back in Northern Ireland, I wanted to follow in the steps of Van Morrison...only his Coney Island route made no geographical sense. So my husband, Tom, and I devised a more logical route of our own that didn’t involve driving round in circles! There was only one problem – we were unable to find the exact location of Coney Island. Would we find it?

We left out the Lecale District - hardly a picturesque part of Belfast. Squigley, too. (Why on earth was Morrison taking pictures there?) Instead we headed straight for Downpatrick via Killyleagh, and over to Strangford Lough. At Strangford we weaved through tiny, ‘neat-as-a-pin’ cottages, until we reached the jetty. There we watched the little ferry plough across the Lough and peered into the water to find the walls laced with delicate pearl-pale jellyfish.

 Losing ourselves in narrow country lanes, we drove ‘on and on over the hill’. Then we turned a corner to see the Mourne Mountains rising like humpback whales out of the Irish Sea.

Ardglass seemed a little forgotten. The fishing trawlers were all but gone. My parents often stopped there when I was little, and bought fresh whiting straight from the sea. (Their simple tastes in food didn’t run to ‘jars of mussels and potted herring’).

Just outside Ardglass, we saw the sign for Coney Island. So it did exist!  We trundled down a pot-holed road to find Coney Island was actually the name of a hamlet that consisted of a row of peeling, down-at-heel fishing cottages.

Tom and I saw a small piece of land that extended into the sea. It wasn’t an island - more a tombolo - but maybe this was Coney Island for Van Morrison, not the hamlet. It wasn’t beautiful - if nature could look messy, this was messy. The ground was rough and uneven, and covered in a tangle of low-lying shrubs and trees.

Suddenly, Tom stopped and pulled me close. He took out his MP3, put one earplug in his ear, and one earplug in mine. The sound of Morrison’s ‘Coney Island’ filled our ears:  ‘I look at the side of your face as the sunshine comes streaming through...and all the time going to Coney Island I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be great if it were like this all the time.’

It was one of those small moment of perfect happiness...



 On the Road to Samnaun

Introduction

My heart’s in free-fall. This shouldn’t happen in Switzerland, land of road engineering par-excellence, with state-of-the-art tunnels and wide, smooth roads that slice effortlessly through rock faces. Not here though.

The road to Samnaun is a scratch on the mountainside; its edge crumbling into the abyss hundreds of feet below - mere inches from our car wheels. One wrong move…

“I can’t do this,” I say to my husband, gripping the steering wheel.

“Well, we’ve got two choices,” he says unhelpfully. “Continue on, or turn back.” Doing a twenty-point turn on a knife edge isn’t an option. So going on it is. 

We weave through ink-black forest, hoping we won’t meet any on-coming traffic on this ridiculously narrow road - or worse still, the local bus. Then through drizzle, I see the mouth of a cave swallowing the road ahead. I edge the car into a tunnel. It fits snuggly between roughly-hewn walls of blasted rock. The tunnel curves a long snake through damp darkness. 

“What if we meet another car?” My voice sounds pathetically shrill.

“You’ll have to reverse back out.”

I glance sideways at the man who has promised to love and protect me. Is he speaking to the woman incapable of reversing two metres on a perfectly straight road without hitting the bank?

We are in the Lower Engadine, in a valley so remote that its inhabitants continue to speak an ancient Latin language long forgotten by the rest of the world. Here, isolated villages, teetering on the edge of v-shaped valleys, are surrounded by harsh, ragged mountains. It’s an unsettling beauty.  Samnaun sits high up at the end of a side valley in a narrow corridor flanked by sheer Austrian mountains on three sides.

Emerging from the last tunnel, the dashboard flashes up REFUEL!!! 

“Better pray we find a petrol station,” husband says with a touch of the absurd – after all, there’s a wall of mountain on one side of us and a void on the other.

But as I inch round a corner, road barely discernable in the rain and fog, a petrol station appears like an aberration on a rocky promontory.

Now we can reach the forgotten ancient Romansh village I have imagined… but no… instead we find Heathrow’s duty-free lounge has taken off and crash-landed on the mountainside here. A jumble of shops strewn across the valley is spilling watches, perfumes, leather bags and designer clothes. Samnaun is a duty-free haven.

We make a hasty departure, flying down the valley on the Austrian side with its state-of-the-art tunnels and wide, smooth road.

Delighted to have won the World First December writing competition with this piece.

Birthday in Ruegen rain

My birthday in Germany seems a long way off now. The island of Ruegen wasn't kind to me on my birthday - it tipped it down! What a difference from glorious sunshine at Mount Saint Helens last year - but it was definitely an interesting place...

I found out that a couple of people have won The Telegraph just back competition twice. (One competitor twice this year). Thought I'd have another go. My story didn't win - but here it is.

We arrived on the island of Rügen on my birthday:  For me the sky should have been pure sapphire-blue, not this stippled grey-black, the sea turquoise rather than drab mercury; the chalk cliffs bone-white instead of this ghostly ash under the mist. No child-painted yellow sun splashed onto the sky, just pearl-grey raindrops.

No lilting happy-go-lucky island voices either. Instead - the machine gun-fire of Teutonic precision. At the campsite, the owner took my details: Name, Adresse, Alter? Solemnly he rattled the details into an ancient computer.

‘Ah, it’s your birthday,’ and his face broke into a smile. ‘Wait a minute’ and he reached for a large bottle of blackberry wine. ‘Willkommen auf Rügen. Have a look and pitch your tent wherever you want’.

We viewed the fields on the edge of the woods. They lay under water. We peered through black beech trees. Everything underfoot was sodden. We returned to the field at the top, and elbowed our way in between two Dutch, pushing aside a table to secure the only dry pitch on the site. I prayed they wouldn’t hold it against me.

The rain was relentless. We escaped into the campsite restaurant, ’Zur Spechthöhle’.  The Woodpecker Cave was a strange metal contraption built in segments, each segment smaller than the one before. It felt like we had entered a warm, damp womb.

The larger-than-life proprietor stepped out from behind the bar: unruly beard, ruddy-red cheeks, and an overall that stretched over a large belly. He looked as if he had come in straight from the fields.

I guessed he would have been born around the time the wall went up; grown up in the old GDR. He would have seen the wall tumble. I wondered if he liked his new world, including the foreign campers.

His voice boomed out, ‘Morgen scheint die Sonne’ and the campers broke into spontaneous applause. ‘My wife, the cook, has promised it’. His black eyes twinkled mischievously, ‘And if it doesn’t, I will cook all evening’.

Next morning, we peeped out of our tent with dewy eyes to see a watery sun. We headed for Prora. I gazed at the stark concrete buildings, covered in graffiti, windows smashed; weeds taking possession. So this was the Nazi’s dream holiday camp – in ruins but tenacious. A poignant symbol.

We wandered onto wet mustard sand and viewed the buildings that stretched out of sight. It takes an hour to walk end to end at 3 miles long. The camp was built to accommodate 20,000, but the war began and Prora never saw a single holiday-maker. 

The sky darkened and the heavens opened. Then from the grey concrete a freshly-painted section appeared.

‘Welcome to the longest Youth Hostel in the world’, a sign greeted us.

We entered a gleaming building, bustling with hostellers. I asked the smiling receptionist if we could have a coffee. As I warmed my hands on a steaming mug of coffee, the rain ceased and a small strip of powder-blue appeared. It wasn’t pure sapphire but it held hope.

A Tale of 12 Cities - then 1

 Amsterdam, Barcelona, Budapest, Dubrovnik, Florence, Heidelberg, Istanbul, Krawow, L'viv, Tallin,Venice, Vienna:

These were the 12 cities I presented to Tom, asking him to choose 1 of the 12 for a birthday treat.

Diverse in choice, you could say.

As the time for our city break grew closer, I realised I had my favourites. After a long, hard winter, and a taste of warmth in the preceding week, I realised I wanted to head south for some sunshine.

I had my own shortlist - Barcelona, Istanbul and Venice (maybe Florence). But of course, the destination had long been arranged.

The day arrived. We drove to Luton airport. I walked around with my eyes on the ground (for fear of give away departure signs), feeling slightly disconcerted and claustrophobic. Occasionally, I heard northern languages. I convinced myself we were heading to a Russian satelite country.

I made it to the gate. Then Tom told me I had to put my bag in my hand luggage. The earphones attached to my MP3 had to come off as they were tangled up in my bag. At that moment they announced the destination - BARCELONA.

Could I have made it to Barcelona without knowing? Who knows. Difficult though, with all the loud Spanish spoken over the speakers on the plane!

On the first day, despite the metro multi tickets we had bought, we walked everywhere, soaking up the Mediterranian warmth. The old town was a maze of narrow streets and solid appartment blocks, mingled with modern sculpture and art. Finally, we made it to the sea.

I couldn't help but think of Prince Charles when I was in Barcelona. The architecture is innovative, courageous and inspirational. What would Charles have made of it?

Tom and I, tried to imagine Charles born in any other century, dismissing Tutor, Georgian, Victorian architecture along the way. Architects must roll their eyes - or laugh out loud when he speaks out against The Gerkin, or any other inspirational landmark on the London horizon.

But in Barcelona, they embrace the new, the imaginative, the creative.

The 'modernisme' period produced art noveau at its best. The Gaudi buildings are unrestrained in their fantasy, but are stunningly beautiful at the same time.

La Pedrera was sarconically nicknamed 'the quarry' by locals. The Casa Batllo is verging on Disney kitch, yet it is strangely aesthetically beautiful in form and use of materials.

The Sagrada Familia is the most controversial of all Gaudi's projects. Started in the late 1800s, the building is only half complete. Some architects are horrified that Gaudi's organic aesthetic has been abandoned in favour of modern building methods. The cartoon-like sculpted figures recently added are seen as a betrayal of Gaudi's vision.

Still the building forges ahead, and the aim is to finish it by 2026 (anniversary of Gaudi's death). Some say, it may be finished this century.

For myself, when I entered the Sagrada Familia, I was moved as I have never been moved before inside a church - the scale of the building, the light, the stain-glassed windows, the unrestrained vision, the celebration of the natural world.

Since Franco died, the Barcelonians haven't stopped building: for the Olympics and for the new millienniuum. The port is awash with exciting new buildings - so much so that Barcelona was awarded a prestigeous architecture award - the first time to a city, rather than to an individual.

I loved Barcelona. The down side to our break? Not having enough time. Feeling shattered from packing in so much.

In Someone Else's World

The email came hot on the heels of the Telegraph Justback competition win email - just a few hours later. It read:

'I am delighted to tell you that you are one of the three finalists for our BGTW/Traveller Travel Writing Competition for your piece: "A portrait of a city - Zurich Ghosts".
I am not able to tell you at this stage whether you have won first, second or third place - this will be announced at the BGTW Yearbook Launch at the London Transport Museum on Tuesday March 8 between 6.30pm and 9pm for which an invitation is attached and I do hope you'll be able to attend in person.
Perhaps you could let me know and meantime, many congratulations'.

At first I thought it was a joke. I never won anything - or at best the last prize (and therefore the rubbish prize that noone wants) in a raffle.
And now I had won two travel writing prizes in one evening.

I travelled down to London and met Tom, my husband, at Covent Garden. Strange to meet up in London 'san infants'. We enjoyed a meal together and made our way to the Transport Museum.
The venue was strange - all the great and the good of travel writing seemed to be there, crammed between ancient London trams, cabs and buses. The journalists were networking furiously as I stood there awkwardly with Tom, feeling I was trespassing on someone elses world.
A travel magazine accountant introduced himself, and a PR person from one of the ferry companies. No influential travel writers/editors for me then! Where was Simon Calder? I spotted the organiser of the competition, and introduced myself. I knew then, I hadn't won first prize as she seemed distracted - and was clearly still searching for the winner!

Still I had my five minutes of fame. I made my way to the podium to collect my prize (Two cityjet tickets) feeling slightly embarassed.
I spoke to the organisers afterwards who were sweetly complementary about my piece.
Second prize ain't bad - and I wasn't sure I wanted to go to writing school (A writing holiday was the first prize). Suddenly the thought of writing about my morning in a souk as soon as I had visited felt like too much pressure! Now I knew how the children felt in school.

So, we made our way home, goody bags in hand (I now have a proper black journalist's notebook for making notes when travelling!)

We stopped at my sister's house in Hitchin where I had left the car, had a quick cup of tea and left at 10pm, thinking we'd make it back to Matlock by midnight. (Big mistake to calculate when you'll get home). Just outside Hitchin the car lights failed. After waiting an hour in a grubby pub someone turned up to sort us out. At 12.15am, lights fixed,  we headed for the motorway - to find the sliproad closed. We had no choice but to travel south before travelling north. Then just outside Matlock, Tom drove over a large plastic container that jammed under the car. I had to get down on my hands and knees in the middle of the road, and pull with all my might to get it out.
Finally we crawled into our street just after 2.30am.

'Na ja', as the Germans say - all in a days work!

The thing is, I'm hooked now - I've just entered my third competition. Maybe my good luck will run out now.

Here's a link to the piece:
http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.bgtw.org%2F2nd-prize-travel-writing-competition-2011.html&h=31963