The United Buddy Bears were, like us, visiting Vienna. Each bear had been painted by an artist in one of the UN’s 192 member states and represented something of their origin: a rather dull wildlife and savannah motif covered South Africa’s bear, a pie eyed and lustful bear represented the Netherlands. Come to promote “tolerance and international understanding,” they were sold at auction in aid of UNICEF, the UN’s Children’s Fund. By November, €1 315 000 had been raised.
Doolin
Doolin, population 200, is a village on Ireland’s West Coast. It is renowned for its traditional music, hence the busloads of tourists trafficked through its tiny strip of small shops. Claire and I, eating Guinness stew outside one of the three village pubs, watched these branded coaches, with names like authenticireland.com, squeeze through the narrow country roads.
We had left Dublin earlier that day, travelled first to Oranmore, outside Galway, and from there to Doolin. The route is operated by Bus Eireann, Ireland’s only nationwide bus carrier. It profits from an inadequate rail network. Continue reading Doolin>>
Down to Dublin
Heads aching, eyes burning and skin clammy, Iain and I took a bus from Belfast to Dundalk, far too early in the morning. It was actually ten o’clock, but our agony made the hour feel quite unsuitable for anywhere but bed. Our ailments had arisen from walking down Belfast’s University Road the previous night, and succumbing to the lure of a flyer handed to us on the street. “The Bunker”, it read, “Tuesdays – Student Night: Free Entry”, “Bulmers £1”. Being budget conscious travellers, we were sold.
Bulmers is an Irish cider, to which we had become accustomed in England (at £3 a bottle), where it is known as Magners, under license. A refreshingly crisp apple cider, usually served on ice from its pint sized bottles, it is lethal stuff. Needless to say we had a duty to make use of the give-away price. Continue reading Down to Dublin>>
Belfast
Claire and I walked off the ferry from Stranraer to Belfast, through the strange contrivance that takes you from land to sea without seeing either, and queued at the escalator leading down to the baggage collection area. Ahead of me, a swarthy middle aged man, his bald, shiny head and large pointy nose swaying as he staggered, took a few steps forward, tripped, and bounced down the escalator, step by painful step, arms and elbows flailing.
He lay momentarily in a heap on the floor, chuckling, then stood. And immediately fell over. He was sitting, still chuckling, arms heaped on his marshmallow body, when we reached the bottom of the escalator. I watched as he refused all offers of help through a stupid smile. Continue reading Belfast>>
Highlands and Islands
I’m writing while on a train through the Scottish Highlands, from Mallaig to Stranraer, along a track cut close into jagged cliffs, skirting the ocean. It is a clear, sunny day, and the landscape reminds me of Cape Town.
Claire and I arrived in Aberdeen a week ago, to visit Peterculter, on its outskirts, where my grandfather spent his early life, and to properly meet his cousin, living about an hour away, in Ballater. We lugged our backpacks through long, grey streets to eventually reach the city’s only hostel, the Aberdeen SYHA. Continue reading Highlands and Islands>>
Glasgow’s Glorious Grime
Iain and I left York late afternoon, for Glasgow, with ample time to catch our train, which arrived already heaving with passengers, all eager to make their weekend getaways. Even the floor space that linked the carriages was occupied. Five or so 18 year olds crowded the space aside our carriage, bellowing vulgar rhymes. They transported packs of tall Stella cans through the carriage, intermittently, as if on a one way conveyor belt. The hours went by, inspiration brewed, they produced a guitar and rich harmonies echoed through the carriage. Brash as they were, their clear voices sung with fervour, reflecting my own excitement for my first Glaswegian weekend.
We settled in quickly at our hostel with a Tennant’s lager, brewed locally, and found our way to the part of the West End favoured by students. Lured in by the Friday night music, we entered a clubby kind of bar, where a dreadlocked DJ enticed his crowd. Wandering through an archway led us to an altogether different scene, a vibrant and well-kept pub adjoining its sister club. Feeling more at home on this side, we watched the commonplace pub bustle. Its young crowd created a different feel to the London counterparts I had frequented. The guy sitting alongside us at the bar counter started chatting, almost instantly, asking where we were from, making small talk. ‘Fuck England’ was emblazoned across his chest in red. The unspoken borders we had crossed became ever more clear. Continue reading Glasgow’s Glorious Grime>>
