1990 California

12.4.90 Yosemite Valley

I had to stop, just to write the above: Moody in Yosemite.

In front of me the sugar icing of Yosemite Falls floats down; behind, the craggy mass of El Capitan.  But Tioga Pass is closed still – there is snow visible everywhere.  Everything is so vertical – and greyly white – not Lakes at all.  The trees too – huge vertical firs – are not human in scale. [Ahead of me, a woman gets out of a car, takes a model ship, holds it to her eye, and looks along it at the Falls…]  Temperature in the 70s, 80s…  Also, the incongruous chapel, like something out of Brothers Grimm.  Further along, back to the 120, a shallow, glaucous stream.  In the distance, another waterfall, like a cloth of white linen pulled off a high ledge.  Everywhere the rocks stained with striations.

At the Cedar House Lodge – pleasant situation across the foothills of Yosemite.  An unpretentious motel - $45 a night for a self-contained cabin.  I am in the restaurant now – surprisingly busy.  Outside, the smell – grassy and warm – of evening. 

US TV fascinates me, snake-like.  Is this the future?  Multimedia?  So vacuous, so slick.  I went for a couple of Cokes in the attached bar earlier.  Mindless slobs in there, braying. 

Already I am afflicted with the sense of burden of writing this stuff.  Do I write about the last four days?  Probably, but not now…

13.4.90 Jackson

I've said little about my routes, so far.  From San Francisco airport, I took 101 to the huge toll bridge, then to Livermore (past signs for the Lab), Stockton, then to the 120.  I passed a hill with a skyline of Quixotic windmills – three-bladed rotors catching the wind.  Eerie in the slow, synchronised gyring.

Everything very tidy – the grass as if clipped.  Teams of men picking up litter along the freeway – there is almost no litter anywhere.  Obsessive.  Driving along, I scan through the radio stations.  As I move I lose and gain them.

In a diner in Jackson.  Film posters on the walls.  One – "Twist around the clock" – features a group called "The Marcels".  Clear blue sky, brilliant hot air.

OK, where do I sit?  - On the shore of Lake Takoe, at 6000 feet (hello, Kashmir), at 80 degrees F au moins – having booked a room at the famed Sonoma Hotel for tomorrow – yee-ha.  Directly opposite me, the last remnants of snow-capped peaks – the rest are only lightly sprinkled with snow.  A few fluffy clouds behind – in front, a clear blue sky with a huge X of vapour trails – it looks like St Andrew's cross.  The air is cool like water, the sun hard.  The lake is a great light-blue sheet.  I'm staying at the Travelodge here - $70, nothing special.  A bulky pine tree spreads its long needles over me.

So how did I get here?

Rising early, I drove down to Mariposa through valleys illuminated by a clean, low sun.  I passed a lay-by; a bloke and a woman stood by their camper.  He signalled for a lift.  As usual, I ignored him,  then noticed that his bonnet was up.  So I stopped: some bit of his motor was broken.  We talked – or at least I did in asking questions.  He was pretty incurious, made no comment on my accent.  I asked if he'd been abroad: "where?" he asked…

A glorious road from the gloriously-named Mariposa.  Rolling, verdant countryside (where are those sheep?), good fast road.  Through Sonora – very pretty, lots of wood-built shops with Western-type verandas.  Same for San Andreas (whoops...the San Andreas…?) then to Jackson (vide supra).  Up to 50 for a long haul to the Echo Summit Pass.  Along the way, I see lots of signs absolutely insisting that I put chains on my tyres – is this another Scott of the Antarctic?  We just keep on rising – 5000 feet, 6000 feet, 7000 feet – then down.  Lake Tahoe heaves into sight – as well as the airport.  I stop off just before Tahoe City for lunch – a "small" pizza of which I hardly eat half…  On the way I drive along a road sandwiched between two waters.  The development has been very discreet along here, and even Tahoe City itself is a one-street town of something approaching charm.

The radio stations: mostly pap (not pop) music.  Others more quirky.  The evo stations, and classical music – but also one on self-improvement.  Quite good really.

14.4.90 Napa

Up early (5.30am), trying to move towards GMT.  To the lake – a silvery morning, cold (6000 feet).  The sun rose peachy, the clouds like bunched satin.  No real reds.  Big expensive brekker.  Then up to Truckee, easy ride to the Interstate to Sacramento, then to here, a coffee shop (the smell of freshly-ground coffee of all kinds).  Huge cafe crème and weighty muffin (pumpkin and nuts).  The day overcast at first, with high, filmy clouds, but hot.  Napa  - "historic" – neat, small, every-so-tidy.  Café at corner of 1st and Main.

I read the second chapter of Jay Gould's "Wonderful Life" yesterday – a good story.  I'm interested to find some sloppiness in the writing (repeated words) and a tendency to quote Shakespeare at the drop of a hat.  His structure seems too loose as well.  But good for all that. [Bikers everywhere – very California.]

To return to Yosemite a little – I'm conscious I've skipped.  That Tioga Pass was closed (9,500 feet) was a pity, since it limited greatly what I could see.  Striking though was the verticality and relentlessness of it all – unlike the Lake District.  [Long hair too seems de rigueur.]  The tree-clad valleys in particular grew monotonous in their grandeur.  Only the glistening streams humanised.

A long winding road from Calistoga to the sea at Jenner.  Into Napa Valley, the towns are more and more attractive – St. Helena especially.  Very rich, neat, a beautiful row of blossoming trees.  Winding roads to Jenner, mostly beside a river.  It all reminds me of Cornwall or Ireland – even the weather has turned here – huge grey blankets of clouds rolling in.  The estuary runs parallel to the beach – mud-grey – then hits the sea with force.  On route number 1…  Easy journey across to Sonoma – or rather near to it: bloody awful signposting meant that I spent nearly an hour driving back and forth along 12 and the environs, looking for it.  It was worth it.

I write this in an ever-so slightly tipsy state – courtesy of the complimentary half bottle of wine.  I sit now (naked after a hot bath) on the three-quarters sized bed reaching at 45 degrees into my corner room (number 4).  To wit: the bedroom reminds me strongly of my stay at San José in Almería.  The same slightly Spartan feel – and the same (ish) dark green towels, flower in a pitcher and ewer, and simple, classic furniture.  Here it is American – dark woods – fine bed, large wardrobe commode, with books, nice half-settee (what is the technical term?), corner washbasins à la Duchamp and Museo Fortuny, and a bathroom with a huge claw-footed bath – deep and wide and hot.  Everything very harmonious.

The hotel sits in the corner of the square – which is Sonoma.  The town itself is very pleasant – unusually, it has a large space containing the town hall, and nicely matured shops around it.  Then a nineteenth-century (?) theatre, now a cinema.  The shops are touristy, but bind well.  The streets off the square's side end quickly.  The trees and water remind me of St. Stephen's Green.

I took a coffee on the patio here.  It occurred to me – à propos my/everyone's seeking of perfect moments – that these points of repose – the moment when we say "now, I am happy" – are what holidays and tourism are about.  If so, I have been so fortunate – a constant succession of such moments.  [god, this wine – Kenwood Sauvignon Blanc 1988 – is knocking me out…]

To the restaurant for dinner – where unfortunately I am almost completely blotto from the wine – having fallen asleep a couple of times.  And I have no money with me...ha!  Dinner – oysters, what the hell – and swordfish – plus a glass of white Zinfandel – which has arrived...red (?)  The dining room is rather amiss.  It is like some seaside hotel dining room: panelled to halfway, chintzy wallpaper, cloying repro pictures, fans and pipework, and at one end a stained-glass window.  I am wearing my suit; no one else is…  The food - especially the swordfish – is excellent.  A wild apple and apricot pie for dessert...

15.4.90  Berkeley

Before I forget: Taiwanese pork strip soup, sweet rice, oysters with spinach and swede fritters (?)… (no – turnip).  Finished – and quite disgusting it was too – especially the gelatinous oysters.  The restaurant is called "Taiwan", and serves Taiwanese food as its speciality.  Pretty busy, clean looking – but yuk.

Up very early – 5.00am – trying to get body clock back.  Cold, overcast day.  Brekkers not until 8 – down in the lobby, laid out on garden-type tables.  Orange juice, coffee, a muffin and...nothing.  Ho-hum. 

 
Down to Highway 101 – to the Golden Gate Bridge ($2) – shorter than I remembered [a phone is ringing – with that quintessential US phone sound – the herald of who knows what mystery….]  Then driving around San Francisco – great larks, especially the mega-steep roads – easily 1 in 3.  Then I spend a long time trying to park – the less said about why the better (hello Smoo – and what does Smoo rhyme with…?)  Ha-ha – in doing so, somebody shunts me up the back – nemesis – but no real damage.

Then out to the Bay Bridge – after finding roads closed and ending up going the wrong way.  Very long bridge – with double-decker above.  Turnoff for University Avenue – post facto turns out to be right.  Walking around before lunch, I notice many cinemas – one showing "The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover"...civilisation arrives.  Otherwise not as picturesque as Harvard.  Perhaps because of Easter.  Not many students obvious.

Thoughts on US driving: essentially cautious – 55 on the freeway, but only just.  Signal quite well, rarely jump lights – che contrasto.  Some cars are gross – I saw a van yesterday – a Dodge – that was big enough to put a Mini in.  Many Jap cars – looking increasingly stylish – cf. the new Mazda soft-top – very nice, wouldn't mind one myself.

At Larry Blake's R&B Cafe – one of the few decent-looking eateries (ha!) around here – surprisingly.  But after my Taiwanese, I can't really face the long trek to the potential Cambodian near the Freeway.  Next time, perhaps….

A pleasant afternoon, whiled away up here by the campus.  I drove up to look at the Durant Hotel – looks like a prison block, but pleasant enough inside.  I'll hopefully get up early and drive down first thing.  To the university art gallery – nothing special (small exhibit of Egyptian art…), but the brutalist concrete was quite interesting.  [Glass of Fetzer Sundial Chardonnary 1988 – yummy.]  Across to the campus – a motley collection; nice grass with stream, campanile à la Venezia.  Reminded me of Harvard Yard.

Then across to The Musical Offering: very civilised – CD shop and café.  St John Passion playing.  I bought 2 CDs.  Pleasant place to dally – reminds again of the bookshop/café in Boston.  Then more wandering hither and thither, looking for a restaurant.  End up here finally.  It is wonderful how at home I feel in California, America – nearly everywhere now.  "One World" and all that.  Once again, my break has been pretty idyllic.  I'm also pleased with my body's ability just to cope and keep going.

16.4.90 over Nevada

Up at 4am – to watch "Purple Rain" – Prince's unfamiliarity with the gentle art of kissing is embarrassing.  But who is the bint?  The plot is dreadful too: cardboard cutouts flipping arbitrarily.  Onto the Freeway, across the Bay Bridge ($1) – so much traffic – and it's 6.30am on Easter Monday.  Don't these Yanks ever stop?  Clearly not.  Just as their compulsive selling and buying never stops.  The whole country is about consumption.  It is embarrassing to hear even the classical music stations break randomly into paeans about their printers (wha??) and the constant "sponsorship" – ads by another name.  God help us if we go the same way.

It is very strange – I cannot imagine what would happen to the US without the act of buying and selling as the primary principle.  In the UK it is far more peripheral – instead, people concentrate on hobbies – a very Brit thing. Here, people follow fashion – the idea of a personal – i.e. unusual – activity is viewed as dangerous, "un-American".  In fact, most activities here are either self-improving, manifestations of wealth and success, or types of instant gratification.  They (the Yanks) are so goal-oriented that they seem unable to do anything for itself.  Ever met a US whippet racer or pigeon fancier?  Clog dancer? The latter possibly, but only as a social activity, not an anti-social speciality as in England.

It is bound up with Yuppiedom: by definition, yuppies come from nowhere – they are nouveaux riches.  A such, they are de-racinated, without – or denying – their aboriginal traditions.  Instead, they want to belong to their new set – and so mindlessly adopt the latest fad.  Hence the US, a traditionally classless society – and so rootless.
At the airport I sat where I sat four days ago, and where I sat 18 months ago.  There was a group of Hawaiians – one huge bloke.  I thought yesterday that if Asians were similarly huge, they'd be frightening.  We patronise them for their smallness.

More destinations:

1988 Boston
1988 San Francisco

1989 New York

1989 US, New Zealand, Fiji

1997 Seattle

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1991 Lisbon

15.3.91 Gatwick

Strange to be sitting back here (in the café, needless to say) having failed to eat my statutory (US) muffin – only a suspiciously evanescent doughnut – beginning another of these black books – the echo of another time – but which one?  Egypt? - would be apt since the first real draft of Egyptian Romance is almost done.

But an interesting day – with headhunters, then telling my boss, then flirting with Fran – who actually and unconsciously quoted from Rubbish in Glanglish – and then to here.  But.  I do wonder where "nel mezzo del cammin" I am going… and Glanglish is a flop – except with kind friends.  So now I run away – Lisbon today, New York two weeks ago, Shannon in two weeks (fixed up today...who cares?)

Lisboa 16.3.91

I have messed up in a fairly serious way: it bucketed down rain during the night.  But all I have is my standard jacket.  Twit.

Hotel good: basic room, comfortable bed and stunning view over Lisboa (as we say).  To my left (I sit now in the top floor bar for breakfast) the castle on the hill, to my right another Golden Gate bridge (orange, that is).  In between, an undulating sea of red and orange roofs.  Further north, the blocks of flats and mini skyscrapers.  Low clouds – but also a tiny hint of blue.

A stroll into town.  Temperature perfect – if the rain keeps off…  Through small, winding, steep backstreets – easy to find the main road – but getting back hard.  However, quite run-down.  Some covered with old tiles.  Doggy-do everywhere.

Down to Praça da Figueira – quite nice, then to Rossio – good character, lots of interesting buildings.  One thing I saw on the way here: Miles Davis is in town tomorrow: if only…

Everyone, but everyone, wears black leather jackets.  I, needless to say, stand out like the proverbial.  As with all countries fresh from years of repression (Spain,  Greece), there is a lot of soft porn in evidence.  

I sit now at the riverside, at the edge of Praça do Comércio.  The river stinks, and reminds me of Varanasi for some reason...  People pour off the ferry.  Up along to the Alfama.  Past church of the the Madeleine, to the Cathedral.  Beggars outside.  Inside, five, six women.  Very over-the-top baroque interior, fine dome over the nave.  Walls faced with pale dirty orange marble.  Totally OTT baldacchino-cum-altar.  A woman rises from praying to touch the corner of an oil painting of a saint.  Then she stands, praying under her breath, before leaving.  Serious business.  Instead of lighting, candles: you put money in a slot, and one of the around 160 bulbs on plastic candles lights up.  Hmm…

Moron: now I'm in the cathedral – the other was some parish church.  Lovely Romanesque job – pure rounded arches.  That old, cold earthy smell – reminds me of that place near Aldeburgh.  Very bare inside, very austere and beautiful.  Up to Largo Santa Luzia – beautiful.  Lovely ensemble of buildings, angled roads (cobbled), and the church with its glorious tiles, and stunning view over the river.  The sun begins to come out.  

Long walk around.  Up to Castelo de S. Jorge – picturesque ruins – reminds me of San Gimignano.  Then a wander through backstreets to Largo Martim Moniz, and then to Coliseu – shut – when does it open?  Unlikely to have seats, I would have thought.  So along to Rossio for coffee at the Café Pique Nigre (???) - anyway, on the pavement, directly facing the fountain.  Very jolly in the sun, which is roaring down through broken clouds now.  Lovely day.  And lovely, as ever, to be here.  Two weeks ago I was in New York – this is getting to be a habit, and feel normal.  

Streets bustling now.  A few blacks around from North Africa (?) - everyone well wrapped up, and with brollies.  A few tourists – French, Dutch here in the café, other coachloads by the castle.  Women typically dark here, dark brown eyes.  Not particularly attractive [PS the other church was supposed to be built on the birthplace of Saint Anthony of Padua – brings Mahler to mind.]  The road where the Coliseu is - R. das Portas de Santo Antão – is very colourful, and looks to be perhaps the real heart of things.  

Once again (or is this a false memory?) a disconcerting sight of a bloke sitting down in the next pavement café, bent over a black book, writing; look up, writing… He has a ponytail – my stylish doppelganger?

Yo! Yo! And triple yo! - a ticket for Miles Davis tomorrow – what larks…

Now in Restaurant Gambrinus – a bit pricey, but what the hell.  Fish soup, then eel steak boiled and '84 white.  Yummy.  Very stiff and formal here – clientele all middle-aged men – and the waiters speak little English, which is interesting.  Things well presented: the wine served with great dash from a height, the soup on a separate table – my sort of place.  Fish soup wonderful – thick and brown like oxtail, with chunks of seafood.  Wine very dry, with a good taste.  Tomato salad was also well presented.  Opposite (I'm up on the balcony) there's a big old bloke puffing on his cigar, drinking his port.  

The eel was disappointing.  I'd imagined a large eel steak – something along the conger line.  Instead, I got a little squit of an eel, cut up into 30 small portions.  Very bony – and it tasted, well, very eely (what a fine word, let's have it again: eely – a bit like Ely, which is el-ig, of course...cf. Swifts "Waterland" – muddy and a bit bland.  But one must try these things.  I've still got the lamb's testicles to try in Lebanese cooking…  And another bit of style: a wonderful blunt chopper-type instrument for scraping the crumbs off.  Creme caramel cut from a mother of a CC…  

I have just ordered a 1944 Port (costing around £10…).  I can see the bottle approaching – dusty, rarely-seen, moved with a reverence befitting its age.  Colheita do 1944 – a rite – shown to me, poured slowly, taken away – like a relic taken back to its sanctuary after the crowds have adored.  It is very tawny, orangey, sherry in colour.  How do I dare drink it?  But in terms of cost it's not much more than that £30 bottle at Pollyanna's I once drank.  So, here goes… Sherry, then a fragrance, then toffee, then the fragrance again.  You can taste the brandy…

The hot, burnt, strong coffee acts as a kind of sandpaper for the palette – served from a kind of chemistry set retort.  A very strange experience – that sense of reverence – 46 years old – older than me – the oldest drink I've ever had…  Probably ten mouthfuls - £1 each.  Also, this port was bottled during the war.  Strange to drink something created then.  But then Portugal is a kind of time capsule, standing outside the mainstream European history.  The residual bitterness of the coffee grouts go well with the port.  The last mouthful – but by now, my senses have been dulled by the power of the first few – Ô paradoxe…  

Long, long walk out to the Gulbenkian Modern Art collection – free with NUJ card.  Fantastic building – pix bit ho-hum, mostly Portuguese.  But some interesting Brit stuff – Michael Andrews, Peter Blake, Hockney, early Hodgkin.  But no expense spared for the collection.

To the main musuem – again free, but sans bag this time.  I ignore the Egyptian stuff – seems pointless really.  The layout of the museum is beautifully spare and sparse, everything presented to the best effect.  Beautiful Roman vases – unusual effects – someone must have been pleased when he discovered them.  Assyrian seals – nice: shown in material the same colour as the cylinder.  Interesting: Armenian art.  We tend to forget that Armenia once was a great empire.  Two fine Rembrandts – one of them a young man in a helmet and armour, the other – very fine – of an old man in almost Scottish garb.  The eyes, the hands very good good, lovely burnished tones of his cloak and gown.  Two unusual Ruysdaels: one of a pool, but with a half-timbered church next to it, the other of a stormy seascape.  Gob-smacking portrait of Colbert by Sebastian Bourdon – I've never seen a pic that seemed so likely to walk out of its frame and say "bonjour".  

Famous Rubens of Hélène Fourment – but in a dress…  A Venetian velvet fan.  Amazing, I recognise a Nattier straight off.  A very human bust of Molière, a very Mozartian smile on his features.  Portrait of Madamoiselle Salle – looking just like Glenn Close…  An extremely naughty statue of Diana by Houdon – complete with labia, not just a bump…  Nice Gainsborough – Mrs Lowndes-Stone – less aloof than many.  A roomful of Venice – all Guardis – nice one of fair in Piazza San Marco – very strange effect – all the grandeur gone.  Including Guardi's realisation of the Palladio bridge at the Rialto…

Trouville by Boudin - I vaguely recognised the scene.  Amazing Turner of Quillebeuf - great.  Terrifying shipwreck scene too – makes you realise what the Titanic must have been like.  Pic of Venice – by Corot: dead, dead, dead.  Recognised Fantin-Latour – whatever next?  Lovely Monet.  Burne-Jones – Mirror of Venus with all the reflections terribly off.  Re-looking at Guardi: there are no birds here either – was Venice devoid of them, or did Guardi copy this aspect of Canaletto?  

So, I sit in the restaurant Já Disse – after a trek and a half.  I have heard my first fado – and not bad it was – but the swordfish is off the menu… I am risking cod, which is meant to be characteristic – let's hope it's also good.

From Gulbenkian by metro – very cheap (45 centavos - about 20p) – very clean and efficient – to Soccorso, the nearest stop.  Then out – straight into the red light district.  Very interesting the patterns of people – that strange kind of loitering that is unique to these districts.  Lots of stares as I pass not once, but twice past all the "bars" with ladies – some not so young – outside [fado is off again.  When I entered during a song, they wouldn't let me through – respect for the fado must be a good sign.  A few words on it: I've got blokes here – high baritones, lots of vibrato.  Two guitars – one playing counterpoint de dum stuff, the other, with its characteristic shape, plays an obbligato line.  Voice really keen – minor key stuff – vaguely modal at times.]  Caldo verde – cabbage soup plus potatoes – and <i>one</i> piece of sausage.

At first I was worried that the singers and players were in their woolies – but I realise now that this is actually a guarantee of their authenticity.  One of the problems I had while walking through the grid of Barrio Alto – finding it finally – was deciding which of the ten or so fado restaurants I should choose.  Most disqualified themselves by their deeply tacky ads outside – star-spangled fado stars.  This had little – but it did have a very neatly wordprocessed menu – I went into job interview mode, where details like that count, hovered for ages – then entered.  Looks good so far – perhaps only one other tourist couple, the rest Portuguese.  Interesting design here: a fake wooden roof – rather like Felfela – and some rather gruesome pelts on the walls – foxes et al.

An amazing concoction has turned up – cod and potatoes in boiling butter – lethal – plus garlic.  Yup, totally lethal – pure garlic but, alas, that ain't a problem.  The carafe of vinho has also done its work – on to the chocolate mousse…

So, as I was saying, finally back to the hotel for a rest – I have walked miles today (yo! M. Davis), a shower, then by taxi to Praça do Comércio – fine in the dusk.  Up to Rossio, then out to Barrio Alto – a long walk, missing it at first, going too far, then back to here, wandering and wandering, looking for that place juste – and possibly finding it – insofar as a tourist can in one day.  And now to coffee – but no port after lunchtime.  Dinky coffee cups – with equally dinky coffee spoons.  

One of the singers seems to be the owner/maître d'.  A large lady has rolled in – a started singing rather well – a throaty female voice.  This is definitely the biz – the audience is joining in, visibly moved.  Interesting the jazzy variations in the chorus.  Place filling up now – 19.15pm.  She weighs 20 stone if she's an ounce (a thumb).  Just ordered a madeira (I hope) – when queried, I said "ναι"…the influence lives on.  OK, so I'm weak – on to a second coffee, black, small and perfectly formed – and the madeira – not bad – because it's clear I need to hear more the large lady ('cos it's not over until…).  Nice: singer/owner/maître d' drinking brandy with guests – a good feel here…

Interesting that the madeira has a final slightly bitter aftertaste – unlike the '44 port.  Drinking this stuff is like chromatography on the tongue: lingual chromatography; I can almost feel the different components separate.  

Female chefs – with a kitchen covered in azulejos – and I failed to spot the connection between azul and lapis lazuli – twit.  The fox skin next to me is hammered to the wall with nails and 50 centavos pieces.   

A good day, making life seem quite bearable at times… 

Lisboa 17.3.91

Glorious, glorious morning – though with clouds coming in perhaps.  And what a glorious night yesterday.  Yes, well worth the effort of searching and searching for Já Disse – the singing was pretty authentic – even down to the large lady just dropping in, having a quick sing.  Pity about the "Madeira", which was prime grade engine oil at some point in its life.  Talking of oil, the coffee here is as black – really strong, French-type – milk makes little dent in its negritude.  A pretty sterling breakfast.

It's strange looking out from my eyrie here, how the scene before me – yesterday an inchoate roil of roofs and half-visible streets – has become a city with thoroughfares and characters even.  At various points I can identify landmarks: Santa Luzia, Castelo San Jorge, Rossio, the Eiffel "Tower" of the Santa Justa Lift etc.  I am beginning to claim Lisboa.

But yesterday.  After the meal, and the fado, I emerged into quite a different world from the one I left.  The narrow streets were seething with people – young people, including a fair few senhoritas – they exist here.  As I walked past tiny, nondescript doorways, I saw inside packed smokey rooms, young people everywhere, talking, joking, laughing.  Some were restaurants, some cafés, some bars, some just rooms.  All were low and atmospheric.  I suddenly realised how Soho must once have been – in the 50s? Colin MacInnes et al.? - a tiny area that comes alive only at night, like sea animals animated by the dark wave of water at high tide – I just had to walk and walk – pure being.

But then back to Rossio – the bars along the way spilling out onto the pavements.  Lovely buzz.  Down to the Tejo, smelling like Venice – and indeed much of Lisboa reminds of Venice – Venice on a hill, without the water...especially near my hotel.  "The Hills of Venice"…

I pick a taxi driver who doesn't know the way, so can't find it.  Amazing how few people speak English here – good sign.  I wonder what Miles will be doing today – yo!  Wonderful muzak in the background – old Sinatra hits, numbers from the 60s, musicals, all in swooning strings, chunky saxes, punchy trumpets.

Now that I have my bearings better, I walk easily to Praça de Graça, then to Santa Luzia.  Now in Alfama, sitting in glorious sun, beside São Miguel.  Pigeons coo around me, water plashes from a sea monster in a fountain on a wall.  The sound of Sunday stirrings.  Again, this place is amazingly like Venice, especially with regard to dog-dirt – you can't afford to admire too much lest you put your foot in it.  Also of the square in San Gimignano.  Carpets on a line to dry by the church, two netball baskets – sponsored by Coca-Cola.  I sit on a stone bench backed by a hundred azulejos – all different.

Along to Santo Estêvão, so like San Francesco della Vignola in Venice.  On the way, took the narrowest steps imaginable – the roofs closing above me. Round the back of the church, a blind doggia and azulejos, a strange heavy grille opposite, big stone bollards.  Down the Escolinhas, a zigzag of paths, railings, trees, houses – a photographer's paradise…

By the wotsit monument in Belem, - finally.  Another Moody magical mystery tour.  Decide to take taxi...turns out there is a big run today, with thousands of people – and the road to Belem is closed.  So we end up taking a huge detour.  But...I did find two things serendipitously: the house with the spiked rustication looked like azulejos gone mad – and the great aqueduct.  So all was not lost.

Now in lovely sun, cool breeze, lapping of waves, tens of sailing dinghies out.  I'm sorry, but I rather like the monument – it strides out into space rather fetchingly, the clouds flee behind.  Very peaceful here.

Inside the Torre do Belem – free today.  Harpsichord music (whose? - CPE Bach/WF Bach-ish) – pleasant.  Strange to be in the place – the only place – I've associated with Lisboa in my filing system.  A long way here, hardly worth it frankly…  But pleasant with the music on the harpsichord.

After coffee nearby, to Belem proper, and the Monastery dos Jeronimos.  Gorgeous interior – King's College Chapel-type perpendicular on the roof of the nave, the columns crazily alive – as if the stone were bubbling.  Lots of people around because of the race.  Interesting empty niches along walls with doors beneath.  A sudden burst of sunshine lights up the space.  Fine gallery in the west end – giving a lovely low space underneath.  Double-decker cloisters, small formal garden – wonderfully peaceful – reminds me of Sant'Agostino, again at San Gimignano.  The stone used here weathers beautifully: black and white striping.  In the distance, I hear Gregorian chant, echoing, booming.  Great, tiny (sic) carvings of devils and monsters et al.  To the West, a long, low room with simple scenes on tiles. Fine fireplace and picture of Santo Jeronimo – plus lion…

Rosa dos Mares Restaurant – upstairs – cool, rustic décor – just on Rua de Belem along from Rafael restaurant – Fodor's recommendation, which is closed.  Fairly full with locals – big capacity at back.  Walls rough plaster – very thickly applied, painted pink, white woodwork, wooden floor.  Wine – although house – not bad, slightly tawny.  Whenever I eat in these places – places with pretension – I often think back to those first trips with my family to eat at the London Steak House in Epsom.  Albeit very limited, they did at least introduce me to the concept and normality of eating out – so that later in life I would take to it like the proverbial duck.  I feel sorry for those who whom I meet at work who are plainly ill-at-ease in this context, be they never so senior.  Alas, a little bland the food here.  The vegetable soup lacking flavour, the kid not meaty enough (though not as tough as my goat curry in Brixton…)  Cold baked apple and marsala.  OK… but all for £11.

It's funny, beginning to think about Son of Glanglish...masochism, pure masochism – but when I get back I will send out a few copies for a lark.

To the Museum of Coaches: it joins Moody's Museum of Mad Musems – along with the hunting place – Chambord and the one in Jodhpur.  Good setting for a horror film – a large hall filled with gilt and velvet bristling coaches – all gross.  But undoubtedly, they have a certain something.  Fine group of post horns – perfect circles.  From the gallery, everything looks so old and musty.  And like some mad ancient dragsters convention.

To the Museu Art Antiga – unknown to the taxi driver – perfect timing – 15 minutes before it opens.  Nice Danaid of Rodin.  Unexpected Piero della Francesca – St. Augustine.  Rock solid and stern – his cloak scenes from the Bible.  The terrifying "Temptation of St. Anthony" by Bosch: what a unique and precocious spirit his was – his vision is so modern in many ways – destruction, sexuality, gross consumption, nightmare drug delirium.  And the fluidity of his images – men turning into trees, heads into bodies, animals into men…  The blazing city – the terrors of war and invasion, the flying machines – what looks like a spaceship almost [downstairs, a piano is moving up a semitone at a time in octave tremolos...why?].  Back here after "doing" the museum...it peters out oddly in a new section – very dark and quiet.  Interesting Japanese screens showing the arrival of the first Europeans – the Portuguese.  But the best is the Bosch – so zu sagen.  And I am now exhausted, my feet killing me.  

The lord gives etc. - interesting ripoff in the taxi – he had a meter in the glove department – and only revealed at the end, and obviously running for a while – but I realised too late and lacked the words – and energy – to argue over £1...worth it for the knowledge.  But rewarded with a ride in Eiffel's lift – and it really looks like the Eiffel Tower in the lift from my memory.  Up at the top, I notice that my hotel is practically the top of Lisbon – brilliantly situated.

Lisbon quite animated.  From here, I see the taxi rank – their green tops – oxidised copper colour forming a tasteful blob by the theatre.  Looking forward to tonight.  So, after walking down – good to see that the fire damage to the old part was not that bad – after buying some chestnuts (castanhas) – cold, some off – god knows what it'll do to my guts – but then I could do with losing some weight – I'm back in Pic-Nic, breathing in old smoke – which seems vaguely appropriate to Portugal, since everyone smokes, drinking milky coffee.  Why here?  Partly because the reasons for going elsewhere are not really good enough – i.e. being different for the sake of it – partly because this is the best place to watch the world – and the darkening skies – and to catch a taxi "home".  As ever, I'm glad to be going back – if only because I've really pushed myself these 48 hours, and am now exhausted.  

I wonder where the attractive young women of the Bairro Alto last night go during the day.  They ain't here…   Reminds me (lots of this) of the central square in Oslo, also of the Place de l'Opéra in Paris – with the theatre in the distance.  Lots of people with trannies around – must be football – my conning taxi-man had it on – in between ogling women as he drove.  But then he is his own punishment…

Archetypal Latins – smoke like chimbleys.  Brolly clutchers too – worse than Brits.  Chestnuts in Munich…  When putative Brits walk by, it is almost painfully obvious, with their pasty complexions.  Well, let's go the whole hog – having a port with my coffee – the latter being pretty horrible – if only to see what roadside port is like.  A generous measure – about double, 2.5 times UK.  A warm glow in the mouth and gullet.  It makes me feel positively eighteenth century – cf. Whigs and Tories.  A tradition I could get into the habit of – drinking port mid afternoon by the bucket… Particularly now that the air temperature is dropping.

Back to the hotel for a rest – and a shave, hoping to save time tomorrow.  Then in to town, to eat before the concert.  Along to the road on with the Coliseu finds itself – lots of fish restaurants – some almost empty – and this one, almost full (too full? - we're all cramped together, and the service is frayed) – but getting fuller too.  Many people out – a real contrast with the UK – Sunday is dead there.  Here it is almost the day out by the look of things. 

Strange to see the huge lobsters alive at the front, waiting for their turn – presumably.  I've just been shown my half – not too closely connected.  So the meal...well, the shrimp bisque a little watery, the  lobster (grilled) not as good as that in The Gambia.  Am I fated never to have a perfect meal here?  Cf. The fruits de mer at L'Huîtrière in Boulogne – now that was a meal and a half…

Interesting implements for eating: a hammer for breaking the shell.  [At times I take a perverse delight in my cacography – and in its wild curlicues – almost abstract on the page – especially with my ideography].  An interesting effect: because the lobsters are in a tank in the window, and we are below the tank, it seems that we are below the water too…  My expresso brings back memories of ...Sicily, and the Monreale Cathedral – a bar near there, lethal coffee and the standard glass of water…

60 minutes to go… (and I hope he does turn up…)

Among the lobsters, there is one top dog (sic) who sits @ the top of one of the two ladders:  will he/she be first/last to go (and parenthetically, where did this "@" lark start…?)

Could I stay on the road for a year, say? Εξαρτάται: I tend to drive myself when I'm away – and exhaust myself.  If I were away for longer, I'd have to ease up.  Is this Moody's Second or Third Law of Tourism?  [I also remember the curved road down from Monreale…]  A good sunset this evening, golds and mauves – made me think of Egyptian Romance, waiting for me.  

£40 for that?  But who cares?  I'm in the Coliseu – about 50 feet from the front.  Amazing place – holds 8000 they say – cheap seats, packed, the Plateia – where I am not – people smoking though – wooden floor, wooden seats – everything wooden – makes King's Cross look like a match.  Gob-smacking place – ten tiers then two tiers of boxes, plus one of standing at the top.  Only possible because I'm getting a 7.20am flight, unusually…  Fine royal box at the back.  I can see I have committed a solecism by not tipping the little man who showed me to my seat.

Lisbon airport 18.3.91

So here I sit at a rather quiet airport, having been woken from a very, very deep sleep at 5am.  Up quickly, a final farewell to the wonderful sights from my windows – San Gimignano again, of course – then by taxi here.

Great concert last night – even if it did end at 12.30am… leaving me precious little time to sleep.  The band was actually bass guitar (Richard?), drums (Ricky), guitar (…?), sax (Kenny), and keyboards (odd name) – all young players, all extremely good – plus MD.  I have never seen such authority on stage as when the man walked on in his black shades, platform heels, and black lame trousers – looking for all the world like the world-famous maestro he is.  His trumpet – miked by a kind of crook – a shocking red in places.

The music was – for want of a better term – jazz-funk – very hard-driven, lots of synth, lots of funky bass.  To begin, M. played with a mute – and the dusty, scuffed sound could be no one else's.  It was immediately recognisable from his recordings – and seemed produced without effort – the odd high note punched out in the sky.

Because of the miking he was able to start with his back to the audience, next to the drum kit, playing softly, very subtly.  Gradually he moved to the front, but in doing so, and in heating things up, he seem to dive down deeper and deeper into himself, bent double like a man in pain.  Must be damn difficult getting the breath control…

Then out came the mute, and more forthright playing – but all very placed, broken up.  And this would be the pattern of the evening, no excess – no sweat, literally, for him.  He left the pyrotechnics to his young bloods – and they provided it in abundance, roaring and squawking.  M.D. simply presided over it all, quite often playing with them – literally and metaphorically in a rather extraordinary way.

He would make them come to the front – like a teacher – and then play with - to - at - them, cajoling them, teasing them, provoking them.  They too bent slightly, as if in reverence, as if learning from the master.  Which they were.  And what a master.  He was a wise old lion prowling the stage, lashing out occasionally, growling sometimes, roaring at others.  His great mane/wig of hair – dyed, looking quite appropriate – gave him the air of some visitor from another planet, a mighty alien with the brain of a planet etc…  He simply dominated everything.  Whether he walked, stalked, stood, played, stayed – whatever – he just held the thousands there in his hands – with his instrument.  

[Some pretty stewardesses in their redcoats – so they exist…]

The music was OK – some drive there, but hardly inspired stuff.  Instead we came to see the man – to just be.  After all, a literal living legend – going back 40 years in jazz to the "Birth of the Cool" and beyond – and still there.  I feel privileged – and well pleased – to have seen him, given my late arrival at jazz.  At least I will be able to say: "of course, I saw Miles Davis live…".

A non-stop set of around two hours, the crowd well-behaved apart from a few nits calling out.  Bloke and woman either side of me smoking...odd effect: to look around the huge, dark hall and see firefly specks of burning cigarettes.  Also: to see the spotlights cut a swathe through the smoke, their beams like wedges.  But good (metaphorical) atmosphere.  Lovely venue – with its wooden floor, the acoustics are good - at least from where I was sitting, which was close.  I hope the whole thing doesn't burn down…

The set ended with Miles first playing slow and soft – again that dusky, dusty sound, that effortless sprinkling of notes.  Beautiful.  We went wild of course, and gave a standing ovation – but to the band, because Miles slipped off after a final uptempo number – and we had not realised our loss – symbolic?  The gig actually ended with a huge solo from the drummer – interesting way to sign off – this guy going bananas alone on stage, at the end of a long, late – great – night.  An experience I would not have missed for anything.

So, what else would I not have missed in these 48 hours or so?  Well, Lisboa herself, a real find – a place I would love to come back to.  A civilised weekend sort of place.  Also Portugal – I must return and sample the rest of it, I'm pretty sure there must be much that is unspoilt – scilicet the number of taxi drivers et al. who don't speak English – always a good sign.  Then of course the 46-year-old port, Santa Luzia, Bairro Alto – the fado, the bustle and 12 midnight.  San Jeronimo, the Bosch – and Miles, Miles, Miles.

My hotel is a find – brilliant location for the view – and cheap (cheaper than the bloody lobster, actually). [One thing I noted with Miles – his gammy right leg – he was limping quite visibly…]  One other fairly crucial thing I have gained is Portuguese – in the sense I feel that I could learn it quite quickly once my Spanish is up to speed.  And this in its turn means Brazil is opened up, and with it South America, which is great.  I also feel that a missing part of of the great jigsaw puzzle of Europe has been found for me – Portugal was always a nasty bite out of the Iberian Peninsular – a hole both geographically and metaphysically – I knew little of its history and culture.  Now I feel that everything's coming together a little more.

[I forgot the word for M.D.: magisterial.]

More destinations:

1993 Mexico

1993 Morocco

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

2020 Scotland: Isle of Skye, Outer Hebrides

8.9.20 Uig

On the ferry, waiting to sail to Tarbert.  Bright day, odd patches of blue.  Yesterday, rainy, as we drove across from Inverness past Loch Ness, then along the A87 through what was impressive if misty scenery, down to Kyle of Lochalsh.  Flew in to Inverness Sunday – easy travel, ironically.  Few people at Gatwick, plane not too full.  Flight short, but then a two-hour wait to pick up our rental car – lots of people hiring cars, so we had to wait for returns.  Madness.

Back in to Inverness, where we last came four years ago.  Small but pleasant city.  We stay in a fairly luxurious apartment, almost with a view of the river.  A good place to relax before beginning our journey to the West.  Drove across "new" Skye bridge – last time I came, 30 odd years ago, I took the short ferry across.  Bridge fairly unexceptionable.  Certainly easy.  Then drove up to Sligachan Hotel for lunch in Seamus' Bar.  I think I may have stayed here all those years ago.   Raining, so not worth walking anywhere.  Up past Portree to our B&B near Uig.   After large lunch, didn't fancy trek down to Portree for dinner, so had supper of nuts, figs and digestives.  Rather good.

Slept well, then to here early to fill up car at nearby petrol station: not many options on Lewis, so best to start with a full tank.  Quite a big ship, 50-60 cars, lorries.  Reasonable price – only £40 for car and two passengers.

Now in Aird Uig, one of the most isolated and extreme points of Scotland/UK/Europe.  From our room in Seacroft B&B we can see the Atlantic.  Straight ahead of us lies thousands of kilometres of nothing.  We arrived in Harris, in Tarbert.  I love ferries, the sense of voyaging out and beyond.  We looked in Tarbert for somewhere to eat.  The only café there is closed, so we buy ham, cheese and bananas at the local store.  Another weird but satisfying meal.  Then out west, along the southern side of Lewis.  The road narrows to a single track, but with multiple passing places.

Stunning views as the road twists and rises and falls.  We head towards a castle, but never get there: the going too slow, and we are heading in the wrong direction for our lodging.  So back to the (only) main road that runs up to the island's capital, Stornoway.  Landscape magnificent, weather holding up, and barely a vehicle on the road except us.  Reminds me strongly of the Lake District, but much grander, and unspoilt.  I doubt I will go to the Lake District again.  

We pass an amazing double sea loch, with a high mountain between – Seaforth Island, I see from the map.  I'm struck as so often by the chasm between the flat, easy, almost featureless topography of maps and the powerful reality packed with geographical incident that they so feebly represent.

The landscape flattens and we turn off left into the heart of Lewis.  Very boggy here, then more rocky outcrops – and no human habitations.  As we approach Uig, we travel down a high-walled valley: reminds me of Darial Gorge.  Indeed, generally the landscape reminds me of Georgia: majestic, barely touched by humans.  Then to Aird Uig, a few houses at the end of the road/world.  As we are early, we go down to the beach.  The huge pebbles are like rounded rocks – hard to walk on.  It's Cornwall without the sand.  The Atlantic brooding magnificently.

Our rooms spacious, the food high quality, if pricey.  Impressively fast Internet provided wirelessly.A good place to use as base for exploration of this fascinating location.  Although I've known of the Outer Hebrides for 50 years, I never thought to visit them – perhaps they seemed too hard to get to.  In fact, the ferries make it relatively easy.

9.9.20 Aird Uig

A day full of sea, rain and wind – which probably counts as a glorious day up here.  First, out to Ardroil beach/Uig sands - where the famous Lewis chessmen were found.  Huge – makes Polzeath look tiddly.  And that's with the tide in.  There were just four of us on the beach – I wonder how full it is during summer high season.  The car park nearby is reasonably large, suggesting quite a few come, but this beach could never be busy.  On one side, a curious collection of large and small rocks – looked very Martian, reds everywhere, plus a few black boulders.  Back across the swaying grasses to the car, a very characteristic machair landscape.  

Then through the amazing Glen Valtos once more, to Valtos itself, taking the scenic road clockwise around the headland.  To Reef beach – very white and weird, with millions of larger shells indicative of the billions of shell fragments that make up the beach: no sand here.  Must be painful to walk on with bare feet.  A few others on the beach, mostly with dogs.  The view across Loch Rog very fine – better than Ardroil beach, which is bigger but the surroundings less impressive.  

To Uig community shop to buy odds and ends for lunch (huge Scottish breakfast meant that more was unnecessary), then out again along Glen Valtos, and down past the long finger of Loch Rog, up to Callanish to see the (main) stone circle.  Different from Stonehenge, but impressive in its own way.  The sharp standing stones all very different – each one a character.  And the extended cruciform nature of the site is intriguing.  What amazed me most was that there are several hundred such circles in Scotland, which is an astonishing thought.  Also, why go to the trouble of building out here on Lewis, the end of the world?  What possessed people thousands of years ago to put so much effort into an endeavour so far from everything?

Back in Aird Uig, we walk up to the headland, past dozens of army digs, many converted into private houses.  Once, there was an RAF radar station up here, and as well as the accommodation, there are also the foundations of other structures connected with the base.  Most weird is a squat green building, derelict, with tiny crenellations along the top of its sides, like some futuristic Knossos.

10.9.20 Port Ness

Sitting in the The Breakwater café, one of the few places open this end of the island, which is bleak, bleak, bleak.  Earlier, drove along "our" road, along the glen, past the stone circles to the broch at Dun Carloway.  Under repair, but an impressive structure nonetheless.  Then on to the blackhouse village at Garenin.  Closed, but we could still walk around it.  Thick thatch held down by rocks tied together, low, squat buildings.  Looked cosy, if rather smokey thanks to the peat fires that burned constantly inside them.  After that, to the big standing stone at Clach an Trushal – 6 metres of rock, vertical.  In the middle of nowhere.  Must have been an effort getting it here.  

A long, desperate drive to here, trying to find something – anything – that would serve us food.  This café has a fantastic location, overlooking the harbour and beach.  Light, and popular by the looks of it.  Afterwards, a quick glance at the port – not a picturesque one, but a rather ugly working one.  Huge concrete walls protecting it from the even higher Atlantic waves.

To the medieval St Moluag's Church, but built on something much older, pagan.  Again: that question – why here?  The church closed, but a bare interior visible through a window.  The external sight is enough: simple but powerful.

Along the road to the Butt of Lewis and its fine lighthouse, unusual in its dark red brickwork.  A charming white-painted house alongside, presumably for the keeper.  Whereas the landscape on the way here was flat, dour and dreary, the cliffs by the lighthouse are splendid – very like Land's End, but a darker-hued rock, with many fragments in the sea, forming a maze of shapes, with the sea surging among them - arguably even more powerful than Cornwall.

11.9.20 Stornoway

The big city, bright lights.  Well, not really.  A couple of streets of shops, a crazy gothic church with a monstrous tower, the place dominated by two ports – the small fishing one, and the larger one for the ferry – why we are here. Weather very blowy – intermittent sun and rain.  Bracing.

Lunch in the cheap and cheerful The Tearoom by the main harbour (and car park).  Pretty minimalist, but ridiculously hard to get in: we had to come back, and even then, were squeezed in on the table of someone coming later on.  Afterwards, to the ferry terminal.  Turns out our ship is much bigger than the one here – far more traffic crossing to Ullapool.  Very smooth journey, even thought the wind was fierce on the streets.  Some dolphins were visible as we drew nearer the mainland.  Scottish highlands emerged from the mists, sun shining intermittently.  Downpours promised for tomorrow…  Then straight out of Ullapool to our hotel, the Dundonell.  

Down Loch Broom, up the hill to Little Loch Broom – strikingly beautiful and unspoilt.  Lots of forestry plantations here, many cut down, looking like the ugly deforestation in Brazil, but without the tropical heat.  Hotel old-fashioned but quaint.  To reach our room, we ascend a long, straight staircase to the third floor – like one of the tombs in the Valley of the Kings, but in reverse.  It turns out the higher rooms are built along the hillside – interesting.  Everything rather faded – no mixer taps, water brown from the mountain source.  But atmospheric.  And remember: as for houses, the three most important things for hotels are location, location, location.  And this one certainly has it, with fine views to the loch and mountains.

12.9.20 Inverness

In the Best Western Inverness Palace hotel.  Despite its naff name, it is an old, classic, Victorian hotel – built around 1880, with the best views over the river and the rather unimpressive castle.  From Dundonnell hotel we took the slow scenic route via Gairloch.  Great views out to sea.  Best part was along Loch Maree - long and impressive.  Weather alternating sun and squally rain.  Arrived here at 12.30, too early to register, so around the town for lunch.  Inverness is quite strange: a city that is tiny compared to London, but big for Scotland.  Also full of very odd architecture.  One building on the western bank of the River Ness had a pediment supported by two pairs of pilasters – one flat, the other curved – reaching the full height of the building.  Made me think of San Giorgio Maggiore.  Never seen anything like it in a house.  Nice.

More destinations:

1987 Isle of Man

1988 Northern England, Glasgow, Isle of Skye

1990 Huddersfield

1992 Northern England, Scotland, Orkney

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1986 India III: Jaipur, Udaipur

5.11.86 Delhi

Guy Fawkes' day, and here I am about to leave Kashmir.  As ever, I got to the Tourist Office early for the bus.  But it was no penance to sit out in the early sun, looking at the mountains swathed in haze, or the huge autumnal trees.  The ride out to the airport was uneventful, but did at least bring us close to one of the other girdling walls of the Kashmir vale.  Craggy snow-capped mountains broke through the mist.  Srinagar airport is unspectacular.  The security precautions were.  And with reason: we were to stop off in Amritsar.  I suspect the arrival of the Indian Prime Minister in Srinagar tomorrow may also have added to the situation.

First, we had to show our tickets to get in.  Then we checked in.  Then we were searched in various ways.  The standard X-ray machines and detector, emptying of pockets, explosive detector, and then full rummaging of hand luggage.  To get outside we showed our boundary pass.  Then we had to leave our hand luggage, identify our checked-in luggage.  We were frisked again, and finally allowed on the plane.  Armed men were visible everywhere.  Very impressive.

So was the flight.  As we reared up above the haze level, the Himalayas to the east bared their fangs at us.  Hundreds of miles of glinting, jagged stone, powdered with snow.  They looked like freshly-chipped flints.  It was a huge frozen sea of sharp rocks.  Behind us, the imperious peak of Nanga Parbat – 26,660 feet high – stood out in splendid isolation.  Nun Kun – a mere 23,410 feet – was visible to the left.  

Apart from the rugged beauty of them, it was the scale – the sheer extent of them.  Not just one or two, but hundreds of peaks.  Below us, the valley was mapped out in rivers and fields.  It all looked so peaceful.  Again, the Vale of Kashmir seemed a ridiculous miracle.  I felt that I had been right to go in by land: it felt as if I had achieved Kashmir.  Similarly, it was right to fly out: there was no unwinding of the magic.  Just an enchanted carpet flight away, with the memory untouched.

The contrast of the plain with the hills was startling.  Hundreds of miles of utter flatness.  The relentlessness was made worse by the regular division of the land up into neat squares: the whole thing looked like a crazed Mondrian, or Klee – but in drab, washed-out colours.  Only the huge snaking rivers cut across everything.  Together with the crumbled aggregations of houses that were towns.

After we flew out of Amritsar – after yet more rigours of emptying all the overhead compartments – we flew over that troubled city.  I could clearly make out the Golden Temple in its lake.  Pity I couldn't visit it.  Arriving back at New Delhi, into the liquid heat, was like coming home.  First the Ex-servicemen's bus, then the journey back along Janpath.  I am staying at the Imperial.  Its room are 18 feet high, and huge.  I am sitting at an escritoire, with a fridge, and three-piece suite.  Everything is very comme il faut.  Up betimes tomorrow: 4am.  Aaargh.

6.11.86 Jaipur

Yep, sure was.  I like large echoing hotels early morning.  They are mine.  As are the streets of Delhi.  To Old Delhi station.  As we approach it, passing through the older parts of the town, the streets begin to bustle.  The station itself is quite grand; inside it has 19 tracks, of varying gauges.  The Pink Express to Jaipur is a one-metre gauge: slow and wobbly.

There is something rather sybaritic in flying from Kashmir yesterday, bogging into a five-star hotel, then legging it off on the train into Rajasthan to another five-star hotel. Apart from the appalling hour, I do not feel tired – not in the saggy, weary, drenched way I used to get.  The secret is certainly money (and I have just finished Amis' Money – for me he is now the Amis – and a force to be reckoned with): don't compromise, travel first class, call room service, get your laundry done.

The train journey is about the right length: long enough to give a sense of distance, not too long that it becomes a huge bore.  One problem is the smuts.  I presume we have a real, live steam engine up front. As a result, gouts of smoke and dirt come through the unshuttable windows.  At the end of the journey, I am covered in it.  The land from Delhi to Jaipur is, as ever, totally flat.  Except for a few rocky hills, looking like bleached, prehistoric whales.  The sun is surprisingly slow in climbing above the mists; when it does come, the light hardens and the shadows deepen.

Eventually, we achieve Jaipur, or rather its outskirts, which linger on and on.  Jaipur Junction: so very Raj.  A big crush of people: I am almost tempted to hire a porter, but resist.  A rickshaw tout gets me: his fee sounds reasonable, we walk to his motorcycle.  A curious thing happens along the way: as great lump of a lout comes up and wallops this kid – late teens, say – about the head a couple of times.  He scoots off without protest.  I ask him what is up: he admits that rickshaw touts are not allowed in the station, accepts his cuffing as meet punishment, the quid pro quo.

To the Welcom Maringh, a pink edifice in this pink city.  I swan in and book without even asking the price. The room is acceptable, one plus, one minus.  The plus is the piped Indian music -  I am writing this to a sequence of shortish ragas – on the sarangi or sarod, I think.  The downside is that the luggage rack has a cunningly-placed shelf above it: I have now whacked myself twice, painfully.  These Indians are small, obviously – as testified by the low ceilings and doorways of the palaces.  I also whacked my head in one of those today as well.

This was the Hawa Mahal – the Palace of the Winds.  To get there, we passed through the massive pink walls, passed along the seemingly interminable Tiralia Bazaar.  A new element I'd noticed from the train: camels.  I don't think I've been this near to camels before; they look simultaneously pitiable and ridiculous.  Their feet in particular: great shaggy carpet slippers flopping along the road.  Their great stupid eyes with Cindy doll eyelashes; their risible knees, all knobbles, and even worse when sitting down.  They add a new factor to the traffic of bikes, rickshaws et al.: they slow it down even more than bullock carts. Jaipur is also unusual in having newer, bigger motorised rickshaws, as well as bigger motorbike buses.  These are typically Indian: an Enfield with half a bus tacked on the back, holding ten people.  

The Hawa Mahal is a front, designed for ladies of the harem to have a butchers at the bustle below.  Externally it looks like a wall covering from the Royal Festival Hall, or Barbican.  Inside, there is very little – a courtyard, some steps, a few small chambers – hence the bumped head.  Everything is pink.  The view is quite interesting.  Along Johri bazaar, a huge glitter of bikes.  There must be 100 million in India.  I hadn't quite grasped the central importance of bikes.  The bazaars themselves are wide - 18th-century town planning for you – with a unity of design that is quite unusual.   Otherwise the same unbelievable micro economy: I saw two stalls which were selling nothing except battered old battery torches.  People stood on the street with a handful of blotchy apples.  There are more beggars here than I've seen elsewhere, including some lepers with nasty looking injuries.

I walked down Johri bazaar, out through Sanganeri gate towards the zoo.  Then to the museum.  Wonderfully fossilised from Raj times: collections of Mughal paintings mixed with early East India Company stamps, line point drawings of Italian masters, collections of rocks presented by German institutes, national costume, patterns, model animals.  It was the first museum I'd been in with pigeons flying around.  Lots of Indians there, sort of mooning around.  I'm not sure what they made of the faded inscriptions in copper plate.

Foolishly – will I never learn? - I decide to walk back along Mirza Ismail Marg.  Although this is supposedly the main new town street it is indistinguishable from any other.  Like them, it is very long – a good mile and a half.  It is this scale – not the country, but the towns – which gets me.  They just go on for every, and there's nothing there.  I suppose you've got to put 750 million people somewhere.

7.11.86  Jaipur

An unsatisfactory day.  After a rip-off breakfast – 9 Rs. for two pieces of toast – I went in to look at the Palace.  This was a bit tame – nothing spectacular at all.  The first courtyard was large with a number of quite gracious trees.  In the middle was a building housing fabrics and such-like.  Off to one side there was the armoury – very impressive if you're into that sort of thing, I'm sure; certainly a testament to the warlike Rajasthan.  But I dislike guns – the "great equalisers".  Through an archway flanked by two splendid stone elephants.  The courtyard inside was sparer.  In the middle was the public Diwan, chiefly notable for two huge water urns.  Being a devout Hindu, the Maharajah was unable to drink the water when he came to England – the irony – so he brought his own.  So far as I could tell, both he and the Maharani still live in the palace, abutting on to the so-called peacock court.  This had splendid tiled doorways.

Then back to the hotel where I had to clear my room by noon.  I could have stayed until 6pm – for an extra £15; but my feelings toward the hotel were such that I was unwilling to put any more money their way.  So I sat around in the courtyard – the only place that got the sun – reading Mailer's Ancient Evenings.  

I got to the station early to try to fix up my berth.  As ever, the scene was noisy, dirty and bustling.  More troops around – Nepalese judging by their oriental looks.  My train was 40 minutes late, so it was soon time to go to sleep.  I was sharing a compartment with a family of five daughters – all young.  By night this was OK; but the next morning…

8.11.86 Udaipur

I woke up several times during the night.  I was cold and the berth was hard and uncomfortable.  Indians when they travel come well-prepared with sleeping bags and pillows.  But my biggest mistake was underestimating how cold it would get.  By morning I was aching everywhere.  Things were not helped by the little girls.  They had woken up, and proceeded to squeal and cry for the next four hours.  My head was splitting; by the end, I think I would gladly have split theirs.

I knew this was going to be a bad day.  I got to the Laxmi Vila Palace Hotel – full up; then Anand Hotel – also full, though I got the distinct impression he was lying.  The Hill Top also didn't want to know, so I ended up at Lakend Hotel (sic).  Afterwards, I wondered whether my bedraggled appearance may have counted against me: my trousers were stained and dirty, my jacket grubby.  Still, I was feeling in no fit state to argue or look further.  Lakend Hotel it was.

This is very nicely situated looking out at the wrong lake – that is, not the main one.  This is fine, except that inevitably there are lots of mosquitoes.  Worse, my room was on the first floor – too low – and as I subsequently found out, not only did not have air-con, but had gaping hole where the air-con had been.  I could close some windows in front of this, but there were more gaps you could have driven a bug through.

All in all, things were pretty bloody.  I felt awful, the room was 'orrible, and I stood a fair chance of getting eaten to death by mosquitoes.  I noticed in fact that I had been bitten twice anyway, one on each wrist: was I suffering from malaria already?

Trusting to my body, I decided to go to bed for an hour or two.  When I awoke, I tried to get some food, and pretty much failed.  I then went back to sleep for a couple more hours.  In the meantime, I had devised a strategy for dealing with the mosquitoes.  I would jam one of the blankets in the gap between the windows – I had already used a bit of cardboard to wedge them shut.  Then I would stay up fairly late and wait for such mosquitoes as were already in the room to be attracted to the light.  Then I would squidge them.  Another problem I had was lack of fly spray – I had wasted all on the houseboat in Srinagar.  So I had to use manual techniques of towel flicking.

It seemed to work.  A couple came out and were duly dispatched.  As I read on, no more emerged.  Parenthetically, Norman Mailer is proving a godsend.  It is real, unputdownable stuff – I was most surprised.  OK, so it's a rude version of Mary Renault, but it has vision, it has sweep – and it's 700 pages long – just what I need.

9.11.86  Udaipur

Another crazy day.  Most of the time I feel bloody awful.  But it has its compensations.  It puts the rest of the time into relief, and it's good to be reminded what minor misery is.  It also has a certain romantic charm.  As I look out of my window I see triangular hills recede into the distance with nicely stepped haze.  The ground is scrubby, like something out of Piero della Francesca.  With the water in front, I feel like a feverish captive in the Holy Land – or Lebanon, perhaps.  Flecker springs to mind.  The sunrises are beautiful here.  First there is lightening of the sky.  Then gradually the first pinkening of the distant hilltops.  This gradually creeps down on to the lake, a picture of tranquillity.

This morning I staggered down to the City Palace.  Sunday, so it was fully of natives and – kids.  I have decided I hate kids.  It was worth it, though.  This is easily the most impressive pile I've seen.  It is huge and rambling, and the architectural style is more jagged and textured.  There seems to be a very noticeable difference between here and further north.  There are various sections to the museum, the largest being devoted to relics of Rajasthan, and a lot of coloured glass for which the region is evidently famous. Looked pretty tacky to me.  Even the peacock court was rather ho-hum.  As for the weapons…

The best thing about this part of the town was the views out over the lake.  At last I saw the fabulous Lake Palace Hotel: it looked rather dull to me.  A three-storey building covering a small island, with one or two trees sticking out.  It gleamed nicely, though.  The other palace looked far more romantic.  The setting of all this is superb, with hills all around, some with walls along their crests.

There was a small museum of sculpture and inscriptions, which was quaint if only for its air of gentle decay.  It also had superb views over the lake.  The final part of the palace was the best.  It was a huge courtyard with a covered dais placed at one end in the middle.  Again, the architecture was much more interesting than Jaipur, say.  

I sat in the sun for a while.  It was amazing what difference a few hundred miles south meant.  The sun's heat felt heavy, a tangible pressure.  I then shuddered my way back through the heat.  But first I went to the Lake Palace Hotel, or at least the land-bound bit.  A boy at the gate assured me it had rooms; the smoothy on the desk assured me otherwise.  Again, I got the distinct impression somebody was telling me porky pies.  What is it? B.O.?

I spent most of the afternoon in bed, and went to bed early, wrapped in a t-shirt, shirt and pullover.  And sweat I certainly did.

10.11.86 and 11.11.86 Delhi

I wake at about 5am, then 6am.  As ever, I try to convince myself I feel much better.  Trying some of my stretching exercises convinces me otherwise.  After breakfast I sit out on the terrace by the lakeside.  It is beautiful – I must be feeling better.  

As well as what look like cormorants or shags or something, there are the most wonderfully-coloured kingfishers I have ever seen.  Their blues flash like lightning – and they're big too.  Just to complete the idyll, the local fishermen are out on the lake.  They ply huge long oars – quite why, I couldn't see at first.  Their nets are pyramidal: what they seem to do is hunt in packs.  They drive the fish into a huddle, using their long oars to beat the water.  Then they drop the nets down vertically, standing on them agilely to push them down.  There follows a lot of obscure poking around, after which they bring back their nets.  I saw a few fairly juicy fish caught in the net; presumably they share them.

Into town to the railway station.  I wanted to confirm my berth for the night, which had been telexed through from Delhi.  As I waited for ages amidst the hordes of Beelzebub's favourites, I could feel in my bones that something was going to be wrong.  And sure enough, come my turn, they couldn't find my name.  After much scrabbling around they did find it – for the 11th – that is, tomorrow.  Great: I had allowed one day's slippage, but I still have to confirm my air ticket.  I don't know whose fault it was – the Indrail ticket clearly says the 10th.  Anyway, I got heavy, saying how I had a flight to catch etc. etc. They said there were no berths, full up.  I hung around.  Eventually, I was asked round the back – usually a good sign.  And after ages sifting and sorting, they eventually came up with something.  I must say that I have never seen an Indian lose his or her temper, or act hot-headedly, apart from the policeman cuffing the boy.  Equally, it is clear that you must never lose your temper either.  

A glutton for punishment, I then went back to the Lake Palace Hotel to go across and have some coffee.  Except that they now had a sign up restricting visits to certain hours – and not now. It's a conspiracy.  Stuff them: who wants to visit a mere Lake Palace when you've stayed in a houseboat in Kashmir?  

To the train without more ado.  As usual, the delays and waiting around.  However, as usual, everything was neatly organised and posted up: names, ages, sex, and berth.  I have been most impressed throughout with this organisational ability.  Their trains my be slow – the so-called Cheetah Express I was about to board took a cool 21 hours to traverse 500 miles – but everything seems under control; even when things go wrong, they are confident of an answer.  Perhaps this is born of 3000 years of civilisation.

I am still feeling yurghish when I board the train.  However, tonight I will be wrapped up: two t-shirts, shirt, jumper and jacket.  My main concern is keeping everyone else awake.  To try to avoid this, I take an unwarranted step – and a paracetamol.  Nobody told me it would taste horrible.

I wake at 5.30am after a couple of coughing crises.  I have been sweating – like a pig – and the mozzies are squealing with blood lust.  I have also anointed myself with anti-mozzie salve – god knows if it does any good: not really testable, is it?  Unfortunately, on waking up, and daring to put my contact lens in – a major worry on dark, dirty, moving trains – breakfasting and generally settling down, there is still a good seven hours of journey left.  Outside the scenery is splendid, if rather monotonous – not entirely flat this time, though.

I finish Ancient Evenings: rather a disappointment.  Perhaps I prefer battles to bonking; in any case, it seemed to fall off, so to speak, after the first half.  An amazing achievement though.  And quite pointless.  The poor man must have utterly immersed himself in the culture.  I was pained to see at the end of the book the telling figures: 1972-1982.  Poor sod.

After that, the rest is silence.  Or rather diddly-dee-dum etc.  Very boring.  But I am feeling better.  Body has finally pulled through – about bloody time.  Just as well, since another family with young kids has joined us.  To being with they are quiet – cunning little bastards.  Later, they turn into clenched balls of screaming will.  My urge to kick the little buggers in the head was only just held in check.  This trip to India has put my family plans back by about four years.  

Back in Delhi.  It's good to be back in this hell-hole of dirt, heat and noise.  To celebrate, I have a really good ding-dong with a rickshaw driver.  30 Rs. he wanted; 15 Rs. I said. 25 Rs. - 15 Rs; 20 Rs. - 15 Rs.  He wouldn't budge, neither would I.  And he kept on queering the pitch with the other drivers.  I told him to go away.  Eventually another driver said 18 Rs., so I thought: sod the other bloke, that's near enough.  

To the Kuwait Airlines office.  On 29th October I had phoned them to confirm my flight.  The bugger than had the audacity to tell me I needed to bowl up in person.  What a cheek.  I told them that I couldn't do this until two days before I left, and got them – vaguely – to promise to keep my seat.  So now I went there to confirm the confirmation.  The offices were located in Barakhamba Road, just off the south-east corner of Connaught Place.  As I tried to enter, a carbine-wielding soldier persuaded me to leave my baggage outside.  I went in.  The first gent I spoke to waved me to another.  He looked supercilious, arrogant.  He kept me waiting some time as he dealt rather curtly with someone. Then when my turn came, he was equally curt, informing me that the check-in time was 3am.  Wot? For a 6am flight?  Presumably they are going to strip search us.

Finally, to the Imperial.  What a haven of civilisation – and the best room service coffee in India.  Toddled off to Connaught Place to buy some tapes and books.  A tape store was most helpful, playing me bits to judge.  The bookshop was very well stocked, including some old UK titles I hadn't seen for years.  Also bought a little study of the divergences of Indian English from British English: very interesting.

12.11.86 Delhi

One day to go.  A morning spent by the pool.  Today is going to be lazy – after all, I've to be up by 1.30am, which will convert to 9pm for the start of my UK day...

1986 India I: Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri
1986 India II: Kashmir

A Partial India

More destinations:

1988 India: Delhi, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Varanasi
1988 Nepal: Kathmandu, Pokhara

1994 Sri Lanka

Moody's Black Notebook Travels