Guttentag and welcome to what I hope is my last blog from Berlin.
Although there is a total absence of any air traffic over the city I remain confident that my 5.35pm flight will take off as planned and carry me to Liverpool. I could be home by 10pm.
Given the options available I have made the most of my enforced stay in Berlin. I have walked for miles and jogged through the nearby Tiergarten. I wouldn't call Berlin a beautiful city, not in the way that Paris is. There is still too much cold war austerity about it. But it is a very interesting place. I even saw the hotel window where Michael Jackson dangled one of his kids over the balcony.
I have found the last 5 days to be very relaxing and my walks have given me time to reflect upon my gap year experience and what I want to do with what remains of it.
I see from the BBC News website that Ryanair are already complaining about the law that forces them to provide accomodation and three meals a day for stranded passengers like me. Strangely enough I agree with them. I don't think that law was intended for situations like this.
My ticket home cost about 60 pounds. To expect 5 days bed and board in a good hotel in return for that does seem unreasonable. That was one reason why I left the hotel near the airport after only one night. Bed, breakfast and evening meal there cost about 110 pounds a day. Here at the hostel I have upgraded from last week and I still get everything for about 30 pounds a day. Maybe the food isn't as good but all that Cadbury's Smash and Instant Whip have brought back fond childhood memories.
For my extra cash I obtained a smaller dormitory to get me away from embarrassing moments with French girls. What I actually got was a double room all to myself. The YHA never fails to impress me. That 15 pound membership has paid for itself many times over.
When I get back there are three main things I must attend to. Firstly I need to complete the final 10,000 word submission for my degree in Creative Writing. Then I need to get my house in tip top shape so I can put it on the market in May. Finally, I need to catch up on the work I have missed on the playwrights course with Hull Truck.
I don't envisage getting back to writing about my antipodean travels for about 2 weeks. Rather than leave this blog empty I am going to publish the opening of what is intended to be my book about my gap year. This is the same material that I will be submitting to the university so if you have any comments please feel free to make them as it will help me to secure the score I need.
The opening starts about 2 years before I become a gapper and should take me up to my first big trip, which was to Tuscany. Former colleagues in particular may find some of my observations about the workplace interesting!
The question I have been asked a few times recently is 'What next?', meaning what trips do I have planned. Well, as of now, none.
I did have a plan to tour Europe by train for about a month in the summer. My prolonged stay in Berlin has made me more confident about travel in Europe by rail and hostel. But it also highlights a deficiency - I am not a Bill Bryson or Paul Theroux. They are travellers who happily disappear on their own for months on end. I enjoy my own company up to a point but it can get a bit tedious and when staying in a hostel where most people are far younger there is a tendency to feel isolated.
Equally, touring New Zealand with Pete for 3 weeks led to some tensions. So, as ever it is the middle path that suits me best. That is travelling with a reasonably sized group of people that contains warm and entertaining individuals. By far the best example of that over the last year was the activity week my youngest son and I had in Turkey last August. I made friends on that holiday who I love dearly and keep in regular contact with.
Most likely then I will embark on another of the group tours. A cycling tour of the coast of Croatia is catching my eye at the moment. There is also the possibilty that I will be joining a friend on the Coast to Coast walk across England, from St Bees in the west to Robin Hood's Bay in the east. I hope to agree on that this weekend.
Please join me on Monday 26th April for a series of blogs that take me back to the start and allow me to explain a bit more about my former life and how I came to be having this gap year.
Live long and prosper.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Berlin
My last trip overseas was to Australia and New Zealand and I have forgotten how much more difficult travel can be when there is a language barrier.
'Wa breah ya wan dat on, yeah?'
'Pardon?'
'Da breah. Wot one?'
Buying a Subway sandwich is a difficult process at the best of times. On average there are 27 decisions to be made as you make your way along the production line. The bread, the filling, the salad, the topping, the size. The permutations are almost limitless. You could create a different sandwich every day for 7 years and 66 days before having to repeat yourself. When the spotty youth asking the questions is doing so in a thick, Scouse accent the difficult becomes the impossible.
Through a combination of sign language and random Yes and No statements I eventually emerged with two 6 inch subs for my son and I that were not that far off from what I actually wanted.
The flight to Berlin was short, just 2 hours, and uneventful. We had flown with Easyjet, which meant the airport we landed at was miles from Berlin itself. Fortunately, the efficient German trains soon had us where we needed to be and we found our hostel.
In Germany, unlike England, the accent is very much on the 'Youth' in Youth Hostel. The average occupant appeared to be about 15 as large, noisy school parties dominated the building.
Our dormitory held 12 people, mostly around 19 to 20 years old.
Backpacking in Australia I learned that there is no point being bashful in the dorms. After all we are all men together. On the first morning I stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel, rummaged around for clean underwear and threw off the towel with a manly flourish before slipping into my Y fronts. It was only when I got round to putting my contact lenses in to cure my blurry vision that I noticed that there was something different about this dorm. What I had taken to be some very long haired men in the next bunk were actually pretty young girls from France. It seems that dormitories are mixed in Germany. Oops!
Berlin is a city of contradictions. It is not somewhere automatically associated with liberalism, but nonetheless it has freedoms to match the likes of Amsterdam. You can possess up to 10g of weed, be naked anywhere you want and even have sex in public places. But dare to jay walk and you risk and instant 10 euro fine. Whole hours are wasted waiting for the green man to appear.
Not just any green man though. This is Apelman. He is a welcome remnant of East Berlin. The green figure has a jaunty hat and an obvious appeal to young children as he steps out gaily. The red figure has his arms spread out wide. His stance is that of a flasher, appealing to the children in a far less welcome manner.
Apelman is a cult figure. Entire shops are devoted to him where you can buy T shirts, mugs, backpacks etc adorned by the red or green figures.
You don't have to spend long on foot in Berlin to realise that you are a second class citizen. The cyclists are the ruling class. Most pavements have a section devoted to bikes. If you wander into it you can guarantee that one of the two wheeled bastards will sneak up silently from behind and scare the shit out of you.
The public buildings are dominated by the most warlike collection of statues I have ever seen. They typically depict well muscled men and women crushing snakes or riding on lions. The message is clear - We are Germans. Screw with us and you will die.
Take for example the well known figure in the chariot on top of the Brandenburg gate. Originally it was called Quadriga, a triumphal goddess of peace, bearing aloft an olive branch. In 1806, when Berlin was conquered by the French, Napoleon had the statue removed and taken to Paris. It was eventually restored to its rightful place in 1814, after Napoleon fell from power. The olive branch, however, was replaced with what we see today - a very menacing iron cross, complete with a savage eagle. The Germans also renamed the figure in the chariot - Victoria.
Look closely at the statue and her gaze appears to be focussed on the French Embassy, one of the main buildings in Pariser Platz, the square in front of the gate. Equally bizarely, the French Embassy, which was built after World War II to replace the bombed out earlier version, resembles a fortified bunker. The lower story has a facade that looks like it is made of sandbags with regular gaps for the people inside to shoot through.
All this aggressive posturing comes at a price. Nearly 70% of Berlin was destroyed in World War II. Nearly every building that survives from the war bears the scars of it. Not far from the hostel my son and I stay at is the Tiergarten - a huge park in the west of the city. Although there hundreds of trees there, none of them are more than 65 years old as the park was plowed up during the war and given over to food production. As the Soviets made their final assault on Berlin in April, 1945 the Tiergarten became a battlefield. Walking around it today it is easy to spot the many bullet holes and shrapnel damage on the various statues that inhabit the park.
Berlin is a place of history. The jewel in the crown of the Third Reich. It reminds me of the lesson I learned about the German people when I was in Munich. That no matter how painful their past maybe they have thrown their doors open to the world and do not try to hide it. More than that they are determined to overcome it.
Take for example Hitler's bunker. This huge complex lay 15 metres beneath Berlin. This is the place where Hitler died on 30th April 1945, along with Eva Braun, who he had married only hours earlier. The Soviets were only 500 metres away and Hitler accepted that he had lost the war.
Having witnessed what the Italian people had done to the body of Mussolini by cutting off his penis and hanging him upside down in public, Hitler ordered that his body be burned once he was dead.
His staff carried out his final wish and then abandoned the bunker. When the Russians arrived a few hours later they realised the significance of the smouldering body. Dental records proved it to be Hitler and he was buried in a secret location. Years later the Soviets exhumed the body, carried out further tests to confirm it was Hitler and allegedly threw his remains in a river.
The bunker itself was blown up by the Russians, although its remains still exist, buried beneath Berlin.
Today this historically important site is as bland and unremarkable as it can be. It is a car park, littered with dog excrement and overlooked by some very ugly flats from the communist era. In 2006, at the time of the World Cup, a small information board was errected. No one wants to to remember Hitler and the Germans have ensured that the neo-nazis of today have nowhere to create a shrine.
My son and I visited the site of the bunker during a very interesting Third Reich tour. Our guide, Ben, is a young historian from south west England. For over three hours he never lost my attention once as we toured the historical sites of Berlin. He even reveals the answer to the question he is asked the most - did Hitler only have one ball?
Although Austrian by birth, an error by the recruiting officer authorised Hitler's application to join the German army at the start of World War I. He became a messenger - a very dangerous role with a high level of mortality. Hitler was severely wounded and yes, he lost a testicle when he was hit by shrapnel.
'Wa breah ya wan dat on, yeah?'
'Pardon?'
'Da breah. Wot one?'
Buying a Subway sandwich is a difficult process at the best of times. On average there are 27 decisions to be made as you make your way along the production line. The bread, the filling, the salad, the topping, the size. The permutations are almost limitless. You could create a different sandwich every day for 7 years and 66 days before having to repeat yourself. When the spotty youth asking the questions is doing so in a thick, Scouse accent the difficult becomes the impossible.
Through a combination of sign language and random Yes and No statements I eventually emerged with two 6 inch subs for my son and I that were not that far off from what I actually wanted.
The flight to Berlin was short, just 2 hours, and uneventful. We had flown with Easyjet, which meant the airport we landed at was miles from Berlin itself. Fortunately, the efficient German trains soon had us where we needed to be and we found our hostel.
In Germany, unlike England, the accent is very much on the 'Youth' in Youth Hostel. The average occupant appeared to be about 15 as large, noisy school parties dominated the building.
Our dormitory held 12 people, mostly around 19 to 20 years old.
Backpacking in Australia I learned that there is no point being bashful in the dorms. After all we are all men together. On the first morning I stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel, rummaged around for clean underwear and threw off the towel with a manly flourish before slipping into my Y fronts. It was only when I got round to putting my contact lenses in to cure my blurry vision that I noticed that there was something different about this dorm. What I had taken to be some very long haired men in the next bunk were actually pretty young girls from France. It seems that dormitories are mixed in Germany. Oops!
Berlin is a city of contradictions. It is not somewhere automatically associated with liberalism, but nonetheless it has freedoms to match the likes of Amsterdam. You can possess up to 10g of weed, be naked anywhere you want and even have sex in public places. But dare to jay walk and you risk and instant 10 euro fine. Whole hours are wasted waiting for the green man to appear.
Not just any green man though. This is Apelman. He is a welcome remnant of East Berlin. The green figure has a jaunty hat and an obvious appeal to young children as he steps out gaily. The red figure has his arms spread out wide. His stance is that of a flasher, appealing to the children in a far less welcome manner.
Apelman is a cult figure. Entire shops are devoted to him where you can buy T shirts, mugs, backpacks etc adorned by the red or green figures.
You don't have to spend long on foot in Berlin to realise that you are a second class citizen. The cyclists are the ruling class. Most pavements have a section devoted to bikes. If you wander into it you can guarantee that one of the two wheeled bastards will sneak up silently from behind and scare the shit out of you.
The public buildings are dominated by the most warlike collection of statues I have ever seen. They typically depict well muscled men and women crushing snakes or riding on lions. The message is clear - We are Germans. Screw with us and you will die.
Take for example the well known figure in the chariot on top of the Brandenburg gate. Originally it was called Quadriga, a triumphal goddess of peace, bearing aloft an olive branch. In 1806, when Berlin was conquered by the French, Napoleon had the statue removed and taken to Paris. It was eventually restored to its rightful place in 1814, after Napoleon fell from power. The olive branch, however, was replaced with what we see today - a very menacing iron cross, complete with a savage eagle. The Germans also renamed the figure in the chariot - Victoria.
Look closely at the statue and her gaze appears to be focussed on the French Embassy, one of the main buildings in Pariser Platz, the square in front of the gate. Equally bizarely, the French Embassy, which was built after World War II to replace the bombed out earlier version, resembles a fortified bunker. The lower story has a facade that looks like it is made of sandbags with regular gaps for the people inside to shoot through.
All this aggressive posturing comes at a price. Nearly 70% of Berlin was destroyed in World War II. Nearly every building that survives from the war bears the scars of it. Not far from the hostel my son and I stay at is the Tiergarten - a huge park in the west of the city. Although there hundreds of trees there, none of them are more than 65 years old as the park was plowed up during the war and given over to food production. As the Soviets made their final assault on Berlin in April, 1945 the Tiergarten became a battlefield. Walking around it today it is easy to spot the many bullet holes and shrapnel damage on the various statues that inhabit the park.
Berlin is a place of history. The jewel in the crown of the Third Reich. It reminds me of the lesson I learned about the German people when I was in Munich. That no matter how painful their past maybe they have thrown their doors open to the world and do not try to hide it. More than that they are determined to overcome it.
Take for example Hitler's bunker. This huge complex lay 15 metres beneath Berlin. This is the place where Hitler died on 30th April 1945, along with Eva Braun, who he had married only hours earlier. The Soviets were only 500 metres away and Hitler accepted that he had lost the war.
Having witnessed what the Italian people had done to the body of Mussolini by cutting off his penis and hanging him upside down in public, Hitler ordered that his body be burned once he was dead.
His staff carried out his final wish and then abandoned the bunker. When the Russians arrived a few hours later they realised the significance of the smouldering body. Dental records proved it to be Hitler and he was buried in a secret location. Years later the Soviets exhumed the body, carried out further tests to confirm it was Hitler and allegedly threw his remains in a river.
The bunker itself was blown up by the Russians, although its remains still exist, buried beneath Berlin.
Today this historically important site is as bland and unremarkable as it can be. It is a car park, littered with dog excrement and overlooked by some very ugly flats from the communist era. In 2006, at the time of the World Cup, a small information board was errected. No one wants to to remember Hitler and the Germans have ensured that the neo-nazis of today have nowhere to create a shrine.
My son and I visited the site of the bunker during a very interesting Third Reich tour. Our guide, Ben, is a young historian from south west England. For over three hours he never lost my attention once as we toured the historical sites of Berlin. He even reveals the answer to the question he is asked the most - did Hitler only have one ball?
Although Austrian by birth, an error by the recruiting officer authorised Hitler's application to join the German army at the start of World War I. He became a messenger - a very dangerous role with a high level of mortality. Hitler was severely wounded and yes, he lost a testicle when he was hit by shrapnel.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Deja Vue
There was an intense feeling of Deja Vue about yesterday. It was a warm, sunny day and I was staying in a hostel with a perceived need to keep my costs down. I had decisions to make about my day.
This is exactly the situation I faced a couple of months back in Adelaide. This time it is Berlin.
If you read my blog on Adelaide then you may recall that I was rather sunburnt and opted for a quiet day, mooching around the art gallery and then reading a book in the shade of the park. Cheap, but not very exciting. In hindsight I regretted that decision and felt I should have at least gone to the zoo where there were two giant pandas on loan from China. Where else would I see pandas?
The universe it seems has used an errupting volcano to put me back in exactly the same situation and allow me to change my decision.
This time I stepped out of the hostel in the morning, Roddy Doyle's The Van tucked in my rucksac, and took a pleasant stroll through the nearby Tiergarten, all the while heading west towards an attraction right at the edge of the large park. Berlin Zoo.
It cost just over 11 euros to enter, hardly breaking the bank of this stranded traveller.
The zoo is very large and well kept. And much to my joy one of the incumbents was a very dashing chap named Bau Bau - a giant panda. I spent quite a while with him while he munched his way through a bucket of carrots. I know it was a him as he had the most enormous testicles. They were sprawled on the ground in front of him as he sat upright to enjoy his snack. He seemed rather proud of them.
It was a lazy, restful day spent wandering around the zoo and picking out my favourite animals. It made me realise, if I needed reminding, how lucky I am. Most of the big animals at the zoo I have seen in the wild - lion, leopard, elephant, crocodile, rhino, giraffe, zebra and the numerous species of antelope and bush buck.
It was good to see the animals so close and marvel at their beauty. I particularly love leopards and one at the zoo obligingly stirred himself to wander around in front of me and show off his beautiful markings. The last time I saw a leopard was in Kenya. She was very elusive and we only came close to her once. Even then I was on the wrong side of the truck and didn't get a good photo of her.
Despite that elusiveness and uncertainty I would opt to see an animal in the wild every time. It is the difference between a photo and a film. In a zoo you can watch the animals for a prolonged period, burning every nuance of their appearance into your mind. But in the wild there is drama. The leopard we saw was elusive for a reason. She was hunting. Trying to find the best vantage point to attack a group of very wary impala that were nearby.
I enjoyed my relaxing day at the zoo but I'd sooner have tension and drama, even when I'm on the wrong side of the bus.
As I write this airplane engines are starting up all over Europe and I am optimistic about getting home on Thursday. My flight back to Liverpool is due to leave early on Thursday evening. If it doesn't fly then I will face a spot of bother as I go to the back of a long queue. There were people I met over the weekend who were due to fly out last Thursday and then were given new flights on Monday. Obviously those didn't go either so I assume they have new flights allocated but not until the weekend. I got the last seat on my flight.
I fear not being offered a flight until early next week. That will test my decision making as whilst I am comfortable and happy at the moment I really do want to go home and watch Hull City get relegated.
At the risk of confusing you, dear reader, my intention for my next blog is to go back the start of my visit and tell you one or two interesting things about Berlin. Did Hitler really only have one ball? Find out next time.
Live long and prosper.
This is exactly the situation I faced a couple of months back in Adelaide. This time it is Berlin.
If you read my blog on Adelaide then you may recall that I was rather sunburnt and opted for a quiet day, mooching around the art gallery and then reading a book in the shade of the park. Cheap, but not very exciting. In hindsight I regretted that decision and felt I should have at least gone to the zoo where there were two giant pandas on loan from China. Where else would I see pandas?
The universe it seems has used an errupting volcano to put me back in exactly the same situation and allow me to change my decision.
This time I stepped out of the hostel in the morning, Roddy Doyle's The Van tucked in my rucksac, and took a pleasant stroll through the nearby Tiergarten, all the while heading west towards an attraction right at the edge of the large park. Berlin Zoo.
It cost just over 11 euros to enter, hardly breaking the bank of this stranded traveller.
The zoo is very large and well kept. And much to my joy one of the incumbents was a very dashing chap named Bau Bau - a giant panda. I spent quite a while with him while he munched his way through a bucket of carrots. I know it was a him as he had the most enormous testicles. They were sprawled on the ground in front of him as he sat upright to enjoy his snack. He seemed rather proud of them.
It was a lazy, restful day spent wandering around the zoo and picking out my favourite animals. It made me realise, if I needed reminding, how lucky I am. Most of the big animals at the zoo I have seen in the wild - lion, leopard, elephant, crocodile, rhino, giraffe, zebra and the numerous species of antelope and bush buck.
It was good to see the animals so close and marvel at their beauty. I particularly love leopards and one at the zoo obligingly stirred himself to wander around in front of me and show off his beautiful markings. The last time I saw a leopard was in Kenya. She was very elusive and we only came close to her once. Even then I was on the wrong side of the truck and didn't get a good photo of her.
Despite that elusiveness and uncertainty I would opt to see an animal in the wild every time. It is the difference between a photo and a film. In a zoo you can watch the animals for a prolonged period, burning every nuance of their appearance into your mind. But in the wild there is drama. The leopard we saw was elusive for a reason. She was hunting. Trying to find the best vantage point to attack a group of very wary impala that were nearby.
I enjoyed my relaxing day at the zoo but I'd sooner have tension and drama, even when I'm on the wrong side of the bus.
As I write this airplane engines are starting up all over Europe and I am optimistic about getting home on Thursday. My flight back to Liverpool is due to leave early on Thursday evening. If it doesn't fly then I will face a spot of bother as I go to the back of a long queue. There were people I met over the weekend who were due to fly out last Thursday and then were given new flights on Monday. Obviously those didn't go either so I assume they have new flights allocated but not until the weekend. I got the last seat on my flight.
I fear not being offered a flight until early next week. That will test my decision making as whilst I am comfortable and happy at the moment I really do want to go home and watch Hull City get relegated.
At the risk of confusing you, dear reader, my intention for my next blog is to go back the start of my visit and tell you one or two interesting things about Berlin. Did Hitler really only have one ball? Find out next time.
Live long and prosper.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Stranded!
I should be at home now, sipping coffee and writing about my 4 day visit to Berlin with my eldest son. Instead I am writing this from Berlin as I am one of the millions of people affected by the closure of European airspace.
On Saturday morning I hugged my son farewell at the Hauptbahnhopft and waved him off as his train left for Hanover. When away from home a rarely bother with newspapers or even TV news, so I was blissfully unaware that a big volcano in Iceland was about to spoil my day.
It was still early but I decided to spend a few leisurely hours out at the airport before flying home. The first problem came when I discovered there was no U-Bahn service out the airport. I got as far as I could then waited for a tube train that would never come. I saw 2 other blokes on the platform who appeared to be having the same problem. Bob and Frank, were in Berlin with their wives and were making their way to the airport. Their lack of both luggage and wives did seem a bit odd.
Eventually we found a bus that would take us the remainder of the journey.
'Is your plane flying then?' said Bob in a Scouse accent.
'I hope so,' I said laughing.
'Don't you know what's happened?' Bob went on and then continued to tell me how a cloud of volcanic ash had grounded all planes over Britain for the last 3 days.
We made our way to the airport at Shonefeld expecting information and help from Easyjet. Bob, Frank and their wives were booked on the same flight as me.
On arrival at the airport every flight on the departures list was cancelled. There was an Easyjet information desk but the besieged staff had abandoned their posts days ago, leaving only a phone number to ring. There were people tapping away wildly at the computers used by the staff who book you in and weigh your luggage. It soon became apparent that these were not staff, but travellers like me, desperate for information. The lunatics had taken over the asylum.
There was nothing to do but join them. The Easyjet website very kindly invited me to log in and change my flight. Great, now we're in business. Except it wouldn't recognise my details and asked for a password I don't recall creating. Frank and Bob had the same problem.
Rumours began to circulate of vouchers being available for hotels and some people were making headway by talking to someone at Easyjet on the 2 phones left unattended at the service desk. After a long queue Frank got through to a real person and accepted new flights. He passed the phone to me and I quickly explained that I wanted the same. I got the last seat available on a flight back to Liverpool.
That flight is not until Thursday.
The man on the phone said I should book into a hotel and keep the receipt. Unwilling to return to central Berlin I made my way to the nearest chain hotel and booked in. When I arrived the cost was 79 euros for the night. I took a short walk that confirmed my suspicion that I was in the middle of nowhere and when I returned I noticed the hotel price had risen by 10 euros.
When I awoke this morning it was clear that nothing had changed overnight and I should abandon any hope of getting home soon. I don't trust Easyjet to reimburse my stay at the hotel and after all of this they may not even exist. I checked out of the hotel and made my way back to Berlin city centre.
I believe it is traditional in my situation to try to escape to Switzerland. But I won't fare any better there. I could strike out west and head for a ferry from either Belgium or Holland. Even if I do that my car is still in Liverpool.
Arriving back at the Hauptbahnhopft any ideas of escape were finally crushed. The station was a sea of tourists and huge queues for the ticket offices. It's not chaos as Germany doesn't do chaos. Dejected people were sitting around talking into mobile phones, all having conversations about escape. Stepping outside the station into the bright sunshine the TV crews were at work recording this human drama.
I am one of the lucky ones. The world will not end if this particular gapper is a few days late getting home. So I made my way back the youth hostel and booked myself back in. I put my washing in the machine and settled down for a few more days in Berlin.
I may get home on Thursday or I may not. I miss my son. Apart from anything else I have relied on his grasp of German to get by. But I do know how to order beer in German and if you're going to be stranded somewhere then it might as well be a place where the beer is some of the best in the world.
Prost!
On Saturday morning I hugged my son farewell at the Hauptbahnhopft and waved him off as his train left for Hanover. When away from home a rarely bother with newspapers or even TV news, so I was blissfully unaware that a big volcano in Iceland was about to spoil my day.
It was still early but I decided to spend a few leisurely hours out at the airport before flying home. The first problem came when I discovered there was no U-Bahn service out the airport. I got as far as I could then waited for a tube train that would never come. I saw 2 other blokes on the platform who appeared to be having the same problem. Bob and Frank, were in Berlin with their wives and were making their way to the airport. Their lack of both luggage and wives did seem a bit odd.
Eventually we found a bus that would take us the remainder of the journey.
'Is your plane flying then?' said Bob in a Scouse accent.
'I hope so,' I said laughing.
'Don't you know what's happened?' Bob went on and then continued to tell me how a cloud of volcanic ash had grounded all planes over Britain for the last 3 days.
We made our way to the airport at Shonefeld expecting information and help from Easyjet. Bob, Frank and their wives were booked on the same flight as me.
On arrival at the airport every flight on the departures list was cancelled. There was an Easyjet information desk but the besieged staff had abandoned their posts days ago, leaving only a phone number to ring. There were people tapping away wildly at the computers used by the staff who book you in and weigh your luggage. It soon became apparent that these were not staff, but travellers like me, desperate for information. The lunatics had taken over the asylum.
There was nothing to do but join them. The Easyjet website very kindly invited me to log in and change my flight. Great, now we're in business. Except it wouldn't recognise my details and asked for a password I don't recall creating. Frank and Bob had the same problem.
Rumours began to circulate of vouchers being available for hotels and some people were making headway by talking to someone at Easyjet on the 2 phones left unattended at the service desk. After a long queue Frank got through to a real person and accepted new flights. He passed the phone to me and I quickly explained that I wanted the same. I got the last seat available on a flight back to Liverpool.
That flight is not until Thursday.
The man on the phone said I should book into a hotel and keep the receipt. Unwilling to return to central Berlin I made my way to the nearest chain hotel and booked in. When I arrived the cost was 79 euros for the night. I took a short walk that confirmed my suspicion that I was in the middle of nowhere and when I returned I noticed the hotel price had risen by 10 euros.
When I awoke this morning it was clear that nothing had changed overnight and I should abandon any hope of getting home soon. I don't trust Easyjet to reimburse my stay at the hotel and after all of this they may not even exist. I checked out of the hotel and made my way back to Berlin city centre.
I believe it is traditional in my situation to try to escape to Switzerland. But I won't fare any better there. I could strike out west and head for a ferry from either Belgium or Holland. Even if I do that my car is still in Liverpool.
Arriving back at the Hauptbahnhopft any ideas of escape were finally crushed. The station was a sea of tourists and huge queues for the ticket offices. It's not chaos as Germany doesn't do chaos. Dejected people were sitting around talking into mobile phones, all having conversations about escape. Stepping outside the station into the bright sunshine the TV crews were at work recording this human drama.
I am one of the lucky ones. The world will not end if this particular gapper is a few days late getting home. So I made my way back the youth hostel and booked myself back in. I put my washing in the machine and settled down for a few more days in Berlin.
I may get home on Thursday or I may not. I miss my son. Apart from anything else I have relied on his grasp of German to get by. But I do know how to order beer in German and if you're going to be stranded somewhere then it might as well be a place where the beer is some of the best in the world.
Prost!
Monday, 12 April 2010
Dogging Part 2
The big fish - well, I think it was this one, I caught so many!The next morning I am out of bed before 6 am with the familiar excitement gnawing at my stomach. After a hasty breakfast I grab my fishing gear and venture out once more. It is a bright, sunny Tuesday morning and there are only three of us fishing the early tide.
For three hours I fish up and then down high tide. Nothing. I can’t even complain about the one that got away as my fishing rod hardly moves during this time.
I am disappointed, particularly when I discover the other fishermen have caught 6 dogfish between them. Was I just unlucky? No, that is not the answer. For during those three hours and from talking to the other fishermen I learn an awful lot about fishing. I learn that fresh bait is very important and that it must be presented to the fish properly. That different strategies are needed to catch different fish. Sea Bass for example will feed close to shore, looking for food among the pebbles higher up the beach as the tide disturbs them. I notice that most of the seasoned fisherman fish with two and sometimes three rods. I had assumed that this was merely a way of improving the chances of catching a fish. It turns out that the rods are cast to different lengths and often with different baits to attract a variety of fish.
I mull over what I have learned on the walk back to the cottage and know what I must do.
Before the morning is over I am in the nearby harbour village of Watchet talking to Dave, owner of the Westcoast Angling Centre. When I explain to Dave that I am fishing with the rod and reel my parents bought me when I was 18 years old he replies:
‘Well, rods and reels have changed a lot in ten years.’
I study his face closely to see if he is taking the piss, but I cannot detect any sign that he is.
‘Actually, it’s over thirty years,’ I correct him.
‘Blimey. That’s longer than I’ve been fishing,’ concedes Dave. He is impressed that I should have caught two dogfish on my antique gear.
It is clear that if I wish to take my fishing seriously and have any kudos among fellow anglers then I will need to take out my wallet.
After a brief discussion about budget I eventually settle on one of Dave’s special offers – a combination of rod and reel for fifty quid.
The rod is a very nice, two piece beachcaster and that afternoon, while the tide is out, I take it onto the beach for some casting practice. My first cast is a personal best and I am soon casting a good 30 yards longer than I was managing on my old rod.
As the evening high tide approaches I set up once more on the sea wall. Unfortunately the weather has taken a turn for the worse and even when it is not raining massive waves leap over the wall and drench me anyway.
My second cast with my new rod finds a nice little codling, about a foot long and maybe a pound in weight. He is joined by a second codling later in the evening.
Over the remaining few days of my holiday I fish as often as I can. On my last full day in Blue Anchor I have plenty of mackerel fillet left for use as bait so I take both my rods down to the sea wall and set up. The gods of fishing have smiled on me. There is a particular point along the wall that I have wanted to fish from all week. It is at the point where a storm drain empties into the Bristol Channel. I had observed that people fishing here tended to catch more fish. Although there are already a number of anglers casting their lines along the wall by the time I arrive to fish the 10 am tide, for some reason none of them have taken this prime spot.
For three hours I fish up and then down high tide. Nothing. I can’t even complain about the one that got away as my fishing rod hardly moves during this time.
I am disappointed, particularly when I discover the other fishermen have caught 6 dogfish between them. Was I just unlucky? No, that is not the answer. For during those three hours and from talking to the other fishermen I learn an awful lot about fishing. I learn that fresh bait is very important and that it must be presented to the fish properly. That different strategies are needed to catch different fish. Sea Bass for example will feed close to shore, looking for food among the pebbles higher up the beach as the tide disturbs them. I notice that most of the seasoned fisherman fish with two and sometimes three rods. I had assumed that this was merely a way of improving the chances of catching a fish. It turns out that the rods are cast to different lengths and often with different baits to attract a variety of fish.
I mull over what I have learned on the walk back to the cottage and know what I must do.
Before the morning is over I am in the nearby harbour village of Watchet talking to Dave, owner of the Westcoast Angling Centre. When I explain to Dave that I am fishing with the rod and reel my parents bought me when I was 18 years old he replies:
‘Well, rods and reels have changed a lot in ten years.’
I study his face closely to see if he is taking the piss, but I cannot detect any sign that he is.
‘Actually, it’s over thirty years,’ I correct him.
‘Blimey. That’s longer than I’ve been fishing,’ concedes Dave. He is impressed that I should have caught two dogfish on my antique gear.
It is clear that if I wish to take my fishing seriously and have any kudos among fellow anglers then I will need to take out my wallet.
After a brief discussion about budget I eventually settle on one of Dave’s special offers – a combination of rod and reel for fifty quid.
The rod is a very nice, two piece beachcaster and that afternoon, while the tide is out, I take it onto the beach for some casting practice. My first cast is a personal best and I am soon casting a good 30 yards longer than I was managing on my old rod.
As the evening high tide approaches I set up once more on the sea wall. Unfortunately the weather has taken a turn for the worse and even when it is not raining massive waves leap over the wall and drench me anyway.
My second cast with my new rod finds a nice little codling, about a foot long and maybe a pound in weight. He is joined by a second codling later in the evening.
Over the remaining few days of my holiday I fish as often as I can. On my last full day in Blue Anchor I have plenty of mackerel fillet left for use as bait so I take both my rods down to the sea wall and set up. The gods of fishing have smiled on me. There is a particular point along the wall that I have wanted to fish from all week. It is at the point where a storm drain empties into the Bristol Channel. I had observed that people fishing here tended to catch more fish. Although there are already a number of anglers casting their lines along the wall by the time I arrive to fish the 10 am tide, for some reason none of them have taken this prime spot.
With both rids baited I wait eagerly for the action to start. It is a good 30 minutes before I get my first bite and reel in a nice sized dogfish. It all goes quiet again until suddenly, in the hour after high tide I am caught in a frenzy of fishing activity as first one and then the other rod catches a fish. At one point I am struggling to get a decent sized dogfish off the hook on one rod when the other rod starts to bend crazily. I just manage to unhook the doggie, chuck it back in the sea and grab the second rod, striking fiercely.
As I begin to reel in I can tell there is something sizeable on the other end of the line and sure enough a very big dogfish soon breaks the surface. He is so big in fact that once out of the water I struggle to reel him up the sea wall. Fearful that the line will break I resort to pulling the fish in by hand, slowly hauling it up the wall and landing it on the footpath. Armed with a tape measure this time I measure its length from nose to tail – 25 inches. The dog fish is very rotund too and I estimate that it weighs well over 2 pounds.
That last day proved to be my most exciting and bountiful. I caught six dogfish and a small whiting, bringing my total for the week to nine dogfish, two cod and two whiting. More fish in one week than I had caught in the preceding 30 years.
The question remains as to whether I achieved my goal – to catch a big fish.
When setting objectives at work I always made them SMART, which is mnemonic for Specific, Measureable, Achievable, Realistic and Timely. I had made the mistake of not being specific about what exactly constitutes a big fish. Without a specific weight or length a ‘big fish’ is very subjective. Therefore I feel that it falls to me to decide what a big fish means to me.
There is no doubt in my mind that nearly all of the dogfish I caught were ‘big fish’. They were a good three or four times bigger than any sea fish I had reeled in before (I have caught trout in a well stocked trout lake before, but I think that is cheating). Certainly a fish over 2 feet long qualifies as big in my opinion, so objective achieved and well done me.
Had I not succeeded then I was prepared to resort to desperate measures. This would have involved putting to sea in a boat to catch fish under the tutelage of a proper fisherman. I think we all know by now how that scenario was likely to end.
Live long and prosper - and see you next week as I am away to Berlin tomorrow morning with number 1 son to sample more of that beer that the Pope drinks.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Dogging
Doggie Two
Doggie OneI had stayed at the small cottage in Blue Anchor, Somerset once before. Apart from having a wonderful view across the Bristol Channel to Wales, its location allows me to visit my parent’s grave, which is about 20 minutes’ drive away and to catch up with relatives in Bridgewater.
My first visit was in April 2008 when I was accompanied by my then girlfriend, Kate, and we were blessed with wonderful weather. This allowed us to take many lovely walks and Kate even indulged me by joining me on a trip up and down the full length of the West Somerset Railway. The railway is operated by volunteers who maintain steam and diesel locomotives as well as 20 miles of track and 10 picturesque stations guaranteed to inspire nostalgia.
I don’t believe in disturbing the ghosts of girlfriends past, so booking the two bedroom cottage for the sole use of myself and my dog was a gamble. I knew that it would bring back memories of happy times with Kate and maybe even invoke the odd late night, whisky fuelled, destructive act of self-examination and regret.
To avoid this I decided to leave the fine malt at home and focussed on the positive. Without Kate in tow I was free. Totally free to do whatever I bloody well wanted without having to tip-toe around Kate’s sensibilities or go on another sodding walk when all I really wanted to do was crash out with a book in the conservatory.
As this orgy of self-indulgence approached I realised exactly what it was I wanted to do more than anything else – go fishing.
At this point I think I should explain the extent of my fishing experience.
When I moved to Hull to train to be a teacher in 1976 I realised that I was moving nearer to the sea and with that came the opportunity to take up sea angling. I became friends with Steve, the student in the next room and he not only had a car but a fishing rod too. Steve wasn’t the most proficient of sea fishermen but he kindly took me on trips to Bridlington where we fished from the harbour wall and caught small whiting and the odd crab.
My parents bought me a rod and reel for Christmas and I even joined the college Sea Angling Society. My one and only trip with them involved 6 hours in a boat off Flamborough Head, where I spent 10 minutes fishing and 5 hours and 50 minutes puking up and sleeping.
In the intervening 30 odd years I have ventured out maybe half a dozen times to various locations with that same rod and reel and on every occasion the result has been the same. I haven’t caught a thing.
Thus it was that catching a decent sized fish made it onto my list of gap year challenges. I thought I was going to achieve it in New Zealand when Pete and I met Greg at Lake Tekapo But that ended in disappointment when our planned trip to catch brown trout was cancelled due to the lake being too choppy.
Blue Anchor afforded another opportunity. When visiting with Kate I had noticed the numerous fishermen lined up along the sea wall at high tide. And a bit of internet research indicated that it was a good spot for catching a variety of fish.
On arrival at my holiday hide-away I allowed myself a day to gather intelligence. I walked Tessa past the twenty or so fishermen spaced out along the sea front and casually observed their positions and the bait they were using, which was mostly mackerel and squid. Chatting to one or two of them I learned that not many fish were being caught but more importantly, the next three days would see some of the highest tides of the year. Great for fishing.
As Monday arrived there were only a handful of hardy fishermen and I stepped out to join them armed with my vintage rod and reel and a good supply of mackerel. I proceeded to the spot I had carefully concluded to be the most propitious and set up my tackle.
I have only been fishing for 10 minutes when the tip of my 12 foot rod begins to flex up and down quite violently. With eager anticipation I strike at my hidden prey and began to reel it in. Yes, there’s definitely something on the end of my line! A dark patch of seaweed breaks the surface.
Undeterred I re-bait my 2 hooks and cast once again. Five minutes later the rod begins to bend once more.
A middle aged couple out for a walk witness me make my deadly strike and gather close in eager anticipation of seeing a leviathan pulled from the deep.
‘Don’t worry, It’ll just be more seaweed,’ I say to them, fearful of disappointing my audience.
Three pairs of eyes fix on the point where fishing line meets water as the lighter line gives way to the luminous green heavier line that is used as the shock leader. Then my trace appears and behind that there is something very light in colour that appears to be wriggling. Not seaweed, but a leviathan from the deep. As the fish breaks the surface we witness the beautiful spotted camouflage of a dogfish. Quite a big one too.
From the sea wall down to the water is about 20 feet. Gently I reel my catch up the wall, hardly daring to breathe for fear that he will wriggle free or the line will snap. Inch by inch I raise him up and then over the wall to safety.
The dogfish is about 20 inches long and sandy in colour with darker spots along his sleek back. It is in every way a thing of beauty.
‘I haven’t caught one of those before,’ I confide to the couple.
In fact I have never caught anything remotely like this before.
‘They can be a bit nasty,’ says the gentleman, sagely.
My first visit was in April 2008 when I was accompanied by my then girlfriend, Kate, and we were blessed with wonderful weather. This allowed us to take many lovely walks and Kate even indulged me by joining me on a trip up and down the full length of the West Somerset Railway. The railway is operated by volunteers who maintain steam and diesel locomotives as well as 20 miles of track and 10 picturesque stations guaranteed to inspire nostalgia.
I don’t believe in disturbing the ghosts of girlfriends past, so booking the two bedroom cottage for the sole use of myself and my dog was a gamble. I knew that it would bring back memories of happy times with Kate and maybe even invoke the odd late night, whisky fuelled, destructive act of self-examination and regret.
To avoid this I decided to leave the fine malt at home and focussed on the positive. Without Kate in tow I was free. Totally free to do whatever I bloody well wanted without having to tip-toe around Kate’s sensibilities or go on another sodding walk when all I really wanted to do was crash out with a book in the conservatory.
As this orgy of self-indulgence approached I realised exactly what it was I wanted to do more than anything else – go fishing.
At this point I think I should explain the extent of my fishing experience.
When I moved to Hull to train to be a teacher in 1976 I realised that I was moving nearer to the sea and with that came the opportunity to take up sea angling. I became friends with Steve, the student in the next room and he not only had a car but a fishing rod too. Steve wasn’t the most proficient of sea fishermen but he kindly took me on trips to Bridlington where we fished from the harbour wall and caught small whiting and the odd crab.
My parents bought me a rod and reel for Christmas and I even joined the college Sea Angling Society. My one and only trip with them involved 6 hours in a boat off Flamborough Head, where I spent 10 minutes fishing and 5 hours and 50 minutes puking up and sleeping.
In the intervening 30 odd years I have ventured out maybe half a dozen times to various locations with that same rod and reel and on every occasion the result has been the same. I haven’t caught a thing.
Thus it was that catching a decent sized fish made it onto my list of gap year challenges. I thought I was going to achieve it in New Zealand when Pete and I met Greg at Lake Tekapo But that ended in disappointment when our planned trip to catch brown trout was cancelled due to the lake being too choppy.
Blue Anchor afforded another opportunity. When visiting with Kate I had noticed the numerous fishermen lined up along the sea wall at high tide. And a bit of internet research indicated that it was a good spot for catching a variety of fish.
On arrival at my holiday hide-away I allowed myself a day to gather intelligence. I walked Tessa past the twenty or so fishermen spaced out along the sea front and casually observed their positions and the bait they were using, which was mostly mackerel and squid. Chatting to one or two of them I learned that not many fish were being caught but more importantly, the next three days would see some of the highest tides of the year. Great for fishing.
As Monday arrived there were only a handful of hardy fishermen and I stepped out to join them armed with my vintage rod and reel and a good supply of mackerel. I proceeded to the spot I had carefully concluded to be the most propitious and set up my tackle.
I have only been fishing for 10 minutes when the tip of my 12 foot rod begins to flex up and down quite violently. With eager anticipation I strike at my hidden prey and began to reel it in. Yes, there’s definitely something on the end of my line! A dark patch of seaweed breaks the surface.
Undeterred I re-bait my 2 hooks and cast once again. Five minutes later the rod begins to bend once more.
A middle aged couple out for a walk witness me make my deadly strike and gather close in eager anticipation of seeing a leviathan pulled from the deep.
‘Don’t worry, It’ll just be more seaweed,’ I say to them, fearful of disappointing my audience.
Three pairs of eyes fix on the point where fishing line meets water as the lighter line gives way to the luminous green heavier line that is used as the shock leader. Then my trace appears and behind that there is something very light in colour that appears to be wriggling. Not seaweed, but a leviathan from the deep. As the fish breaks the surface we witness the beautiful spotted camouflage of a dogfish. Quite a big one too.
From the sea wall down to the water is about 20 feet. Gently I reel my catch up the wall, hardly daring to breathe for fear that he will wriggle free or the line will snap. Inch by inch I raise him up and then over the wall to safety.
The dogfish is about 20 inches long and sandy in colour with darker spots along his sleek back. It is in every way a thing of beauty.
‘I haven’t caught one of those before,’ I confide to the couple.
In fact I have never caught anything remotely like this before.
‘They can be a bit nasty,’ says the gentleman, sagely.
‘Yes,’ I say uncertainly, eyeing the mini shark that is now lying on the pavement and looking none too happy to have my brand new hook stuck in its cruel looking gob.
The couple wish me luck and leave me to it whilst I reach in my bag for my small camera. I manage get a couple of shots of the dogfish with a can of coke for scale, in between its bursts of angry thrashing.
Believing in simplicity I had travelled from the cottage to my preferred spot with the bare essentials to catch a fish. I hadn’t considered what I was going to do if I caught one, let alone one that can bite you.
Luckily I had my gloves with me. I grabbed the beast with a gloved hand whilst trying to wrestle the embedded hook free. Even through the glove the dogfish skin was course and rough. As my catch writhed in my hand I could sense his immense power and he wrapped his strong tail around my wrist like a snake.
The fish was hooked just inside his gapping mouth, having taken the bait whole. I realised that my fears that he might have fallen off the hook were unfounded as I it took a good 2 minutes for me to finally prise the fish free.
The dogfish and I gazed at each other respectfully before I dropped him back into the sea and with a powerful swish of his tail he was gone.
I fished the tide for a further 90 minutes, during which time my rod went crazy just once more. I reeled in another dogfish, this time a bit darker and slightly smaller than the first one.
As I made my way back to the cottage I stopped to talk to each of the other four fishermen along the wall. A part of me just had to share the news of my success with someone. It turned out that the others had caught dogfish too. One bloke had caught six.
As I talked to these men it wasn’t just the joy of success that elated me. It was the realisation that I had finally passed an initiation ceremony and been allowed to join the curious band of people who spend hours and hours by the sea, or on boats, or by rivers and lakes just for the delight of winding in a bit of nylon line and wondering what is on the end of it.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Zumerzet
I am back fully refreshed after my week in Somerset. The weather could have been kinder but I was never bored and even when the rain was pouring down outside it was nice to stoke up the wood burning stove and snuggle down for a good read and the odd nap. Did I catch the big fish? Read tomorrow's blog to find out.
Apologies to anyone following my Australian and New Zealand adventures. I will pick them up again soon, it's just that I have other projects pressing on me too. I am on the PlayWrite course at Hull Truck now and that demands a fair bit of 'homework' and script reading. I am also meeting my university tutor on Wednesday and I have about a month left to complete my final submission to my degree course and ensure it is of the required standard.
Whilst I was away I received a reply from one of the literary agents I had approached. He said:
'The travel book market is so constrained these days that I fear we would find it difficult to place your work with a publisher.'
Not the response I was hoping for, which was more along the lines of:
'Wow! You are so funny and original. When can you sign?'
I'm not downcast about it, but it does pose a dilemma - should I complete my book as planned or would I be better investing my energies in other areas, such as play writing? Or, maybe I should just get a real job and have done with it.
Life has a nasty habit of getting in the way of my plans too. I intend to put my house on the market in May, so there is a fair bit to do in preparation for that. Not to mention a battle I am having with the solicitor who is supposed to be handling the probate for my father's estate. A 10 page letter of complaint is poised for sending. 'Smoke that you bastard', as my friend Ian would say.
I hope you like today's picture. It is one of the aurora borealis, taken from the plane I was on a couple of weeks or so ago. The picture was taken by one of the resident experts on board and is of much better quality than the one I took. Well, they didn't have to play musical chairs to get a view from the window.
Be back soon.
Live long and prosper.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
