Andy & Bev’s Marvelous(?) Travel Tales Stories, tips & anecdotes from 23 years in the tour business

Dancing, watching men fish - and enjoying

Sun, 29 Aug 2010 09:03:11 -0700

They really were dancing in the streets.

Old Swing and Jive stuff by The Jive Aces belting out their tunes for the happy crowd. Apart from the pure fun and great music, it was sort of interesting that they were playing no more than about forty paces from where the Church and Government used to burn witches about 350 years ago.(When you think about it, sometimes the good old days weren’t really all that good!)

Just a few blocks away a young trio of two violinists and a cellist were belting out some great classical pieces while jigging about their small stage on the Royal Mile just a wee distance from a chap who was happily juggling flaming torches while balancing on a tight rope. A green mermaid was sitting on the pavement giving ‘come hither’ gestures to passers by while a group of Peruvian musicians played their haunting music just a few feet away. And in the Royal Museum foyer a flute player and harpist brought us to tears with their sounds.

It was Festival time in Scotland’s Capital when the good, the bad and the terribly awful entertainers from all corners of the world converge on this staid old city for a few weeks of delightful chaos.

And speaking of dancing, some of our gang did their fair share when they crashed a wedding up near Aberdeen.

There was a wedding reception at Ardoe House, a stately old Scottish Baronial pile now turned into a hotel. We were leaving the dining room when we heard the sounds of a Scottish Ceilidh band playing some great old Strathspeys and reels from one of the large halls. We watched from the doorway for awhile before Bev started getting our gang - and anyone else who passed by into doing an impromptu reel in the hall.

Next thing we knew a kilted gentleman had come out from the reception and hauled Bev and one of our other guests on to the dance floor. And when Bev dances, she dances! Lost a perfectly good pair of earrings while flying about to The Dashing White Sergeant or something.

The Miliarty Tattoo was again magnificent - and poignant. This year so many of the units had just returned from Afghanistan having lost a number of their young men in that terrible conflict.

Then there were the other days. On what other tour can you sit on the side of the river and watch men fish? Now that’s bliss. Especially with a nice warm sun working its way through the old joints and bones. Or driving through endless miles of hills covered with fireweed and purple heather; or sitting around the dinner table with a small group of friends chatting about nothing in particular - just enjoying.

Economic forces say that Scotland is still suffering from the economic downturn and they’re probably right. We’ve seen a lot of businesses that have closed down and others that are definitely feeling the squeeze, but - take a walk down any of the main streets in Glasgow, in Edinburgh, in Inverness, in fact anywhere and you will be shocked at the numbers of people. Not tourists, except for the obvious places, but ordinary Scots out enjoying life.
They know times are tough but they also know that they will not let the moans and groans of the banks, the media and the economists stop them from being Scots and enjoying life. We certainly don’t seem to find that attitude back home.

On this past Saturday after most everyone had left for home Bev and I felt almost overpowered with the sense of history when we wandered through Paisley Cathedral. This was where the Stewart dynasty was born and where Kings lay beneath the ancient stones along with Marjory Bruce, the daughter of Robert the Bruce.

We read the names of the Abbots of the Cathedral starting in 1169 while the Cathedral organist practiced for Sunday. High up, ancient battle flags of proud ancient regiments hung in aging tatters while scattered about in various corners were books of remembrance dating back to the Napoleonic wars.

The cathedral holds up a mirror to the past, to days of greatness and pride. The echoes of ancient voices who struggled to reach for something above and beyond themselves are still heard.

Enclosed in this sacred place is the history of a nation and of a city and the feeling was intense.

And now, it’s on to the rest of the Celtic World as we set sail for Ireland.

A Tattooed Tenor & an Old Bridge

Wed, 11 Aug 2010 08:19:39 -0700

It was hot; ugly hot. Mind you, this was the South of France so no big surprise even though it was early May.

We parked ourselves in an outdoor café by the main square in Avignon just opposite the stunningly impressive 14th century Palais des Papes - the Palace of the Popes.

As we sat, a shaven headed man of about 30 wandered into the middle of the square carrying a chair. He placed the chair on the ground, rolled up his sleeves revealing a couple of mean looking tattoos and then he sang.

His clear, powerful tenor voice carried around the square and across the front of the Palace entrance. Not French but Medieval Occitan, the old language of the South of France. A haunting, echoing richness that sang of things we knew nothing about but which entered our souls.

It was remarkable. People who had been crossing the square moved to the sides; those of us who had been moaning about the heat or perhaps discussing business deals grew silent.

This large square was empty save for the tattooed throwback to another age who simply sat on his chair filling the air with the language of what had once been and as I remember that moment I am again close to tears.

So many entertainers have done that to us in this fabled city. Once it was a celiist, another time a violinist, and again, a flute player.

Part of it is the acoustics. Great stone buildings surrounding a large stone square seem to collect the sounds and convert them so they enter the ear then go deep inside.

But Avignon is a city that can do that. It allows those of us from the 21st century to enter inside the old walls but it retains something from long ago whether it be from the entertainers in the square, all who seem to be ‘a cut above’ the usual fare, or from a tiny, dark side street that almost seems to carry the echo of medieval voices.

During the 14th century, a number of Popes ruled from Avignon, escaping the political intrigues of Rome and the city retained a strong ecclesiastical presence until the Napoleonic period of the late 18th century.

This is also the city of the old song “Sur le pont, d’Avignon, on y danse, on y danse...”

The bridge is still there, dating back to the 12th century. Mind you, it only extends half way across the Rhone; the rest was washed away in floods during the 17th century. The song, which I’m sure you remember from your childhood, referred to dances and festivals that took place under the arches of the bridge years ago.

A number of years ago I decided my mornning run would circle outside the walls of the city and it was a remarkable feeling to run under one of the arches with a silly grin on my face singing “Sur le pont..”

Even the strange looks from a runner going the opposite direction failed to deter this brilliantly uplifting moment that blended the moment with a time some 50 years before sitting in a classroom in Ottawa singing the words to that song while being patiently conducted by Miss Draffin.

Then there was the wine festival. A band, not quite the sedate image one imagines the French would be like, the controllers of the wine regions all marching along in their strange, traditional long robed costumes - and the wine goddesses Four sweet young things all dressed in purple and skipping along while sipping from their large wine goblets. Mind you, sipping isn’t really the right word. By the time the parade ended up in the main square, our three young ladies were quite guttered. The wine had gone down well and coupled with their dancing along the parade route they were, by the end, quite painless.

At one end of the square, a massive side of Beef - the whole thing - was slowly rotating on a spit while one chef watched carefully as another mashed potatoes in a great vat, chucking in enough butter and garlic to make your eyes water. By the way, he used what looked like an outboard motor to do the mashing.

Little wine booths took up every available space around the square and in every corner of the town thousands of guests wandered from booth to booth with their little three euro wine glass with strings attached, for their free samples.

The staid composure of the French was slipping a bit by the time they sat at long trestle tables to partake of that marvellous meal on that marvellous day.

“Hey - What time does the bar close?”

Wed, 4 Aug 2010 08:55:11 -0700

Iain was looking after the bar lounge one evening (well into the evening by the way) when a young American visitor hollered out: “Hey, what time does the bar close?”. “October” was the immediate response.

It was that kind of place. And it was a gem. Old, turreted, spacious; a marvelous example of what the old shooting lodge once was. Paneled and tapestried walls, one ceiling totally covered in colorful astrological symbols, great old family portraits aging gently with a couple of centuries of dust, creaking stairs, a lounge with the walls covered with claymores, shields and cavalry lances and all surrounded with the rugged strength and beauty of the massive mountains of the western highlands.

With characters to match. A couple of times a week the gang from Shieldaig would come calling after midnight after they had closed their small hotel in the tiny coastal community nearby. They were a rough looking lot. Archie the boss who had last shaved an uncertain number of days before and who had hands that appeared to have been carved from the Torridon stone, a couple of mean looking henchmen who looked as though they had just come off a long session on a fishing boat, Jimmy the Fall, so named because after his third drink he would inevitably fall off his bar stool and curl up contentedly on the floor. And Archie’s daughter, a rather nubile young thing fondly known as ‘The Bike”. She had an interesting habit of following men into the gent’s room and causing a bit of a stir.

Fortunately they would only show up long after our sedate North American guests had all retired for the evening.

Viewpoint with a Purpose...

There was one particular viewpoint from the hotel that was spectacular. A vast expanse of lawn, the shimmering loch then the vast rugged and ancient Torridon mountain range looming in behind. The fact that it was in the turret bathroom - from the throne - made it all the more - peaceful(?) or maybe surreal would be a better term.

That was the secret of the great old shooting lodge at Torridon. Everything was surreal; as well as being a bit off the wall.

Much of the ‘off the wallness’ could possibly be attributed to the estate manager Iain Fraser (absolutely no relation!) who did everything from guiding shooting parties, talking you fishing, looking after the 60 acre estate and running what was then known as the Loch Torridon Hotel for the Earl of Lovelace.

Some nights were long. Iain liked company and one rather memorable night neither of us could decide if the sun on the horizon was in the process of going up or going down. (Please remember I was much younger and Bev had not yet appeared on the scene).

Whooping it up with the Countess...

There were other evenings when the Countess of Lovelace would swoop in with her train of poodle like attendants. One would escort her ladyship, another would be carrying a small footstool which herself would use to rest her gouty foot, another would be hovering like an annoying fly, with lighter in hand waiting to reight the ever present cigar clenched between the teeth of the Swedish born Countess.

Apart from her ‘tail’ of followers, she was a hoot. The Earl had died a number of years before and her son, the current Earl always seemed to be elsewhere. She would come in without warning, plop herself down, chat with everyone, drink whatever was on hand and would want ‘Music”.

Iain played a pretty mean guitar and there were always a bunch hanging about who wanted to sing, usually old Highland tunes. And if anyone happened to bring along their ‘box’ (accordion to the unwashed) or fiddle, dancing would break out led by the countess, hurtling her fair size about, always in danger of falling from her painful gout, and of course, surrounded by the dithering followers waiting to catch her if she fell. Heaven knows what would have happened if she had gone down atop one of her strange wee trained seals.

There was also a time when one of the staff stole my underwear from the dryer and hung them all around the fireplace in the main lounge for the benefit of the guests.

On a good morning, we would take the guests on a walk around the head of the loch to a wide open deer yard run by Lea MacNally, a former deer stalker turned naturalist. This was an open area where deer could come and go as they pleased and often we would feed these magnificent creatures by hand and be entertained by Lea’s stories of the hills.

Lea had been awarded the British Empire Medal and was a Fellow of the Royal Zoological Society and the British Deer Society and all that he had ever learned had been from the hills. Sadly he passed away a number of years ago leaving a big hole.

Loch Torridon Hotel has changed since those days. The Countess died, the young Earl sold the place and an English couple bought it and have turned it into a remarkable five star posh hotel.

I often wonder if they ever hear the laughs and echoes of the ghosts who once wandered through the halls and admired the view from that special turret window?

Hotels - “Enjoy Your Stay” But how do you define “enjoy”

Wed, 28 Jul 2010 09:46:24 -0700

If it hadn’t been for all the sunflower seeds spit over the carpets and in the pool, it would have been a nice hotel. The stench of stale beer permeating the halls and squishing from the carpets didn’t help much either nor did the boxes of cereal deliberately ground up and trampled into the carpets.

We were in Calgary this past weekend and Rider Nation had come calling. Saskatchewan Roughriders were visiting the Stampeders for a Canadian Football League game and the famous fans of the Green and White had come and gone.As always with any group of fans there are those who go only to party, to make fools of themselves and to be destructive.

Being tour operators Bev and I have moments when we bang our heads against a wall interspersed with therapy sessions reminding us of why we’re in this business. Most of the times are good - very good; let’s face it you wouldn’t be in the tourism and hospitality business if there wasn’t a big aesthetic reward.

But this weekend coupled with a host of hotel memories reminded us that it could be worse; we could be in the Hotel business!

Dying to get in...

“You’d be surprised at the number of people who check into a hotel to commit suicide”
Sarah had worked in a New York City hotel to help pay her way through College. It was just one of those conversations that comes up while talking about ‘the business’.

We expressed shock at the elaborate plans that some people in that fragile state of mind can come up with (including leaving credit card numbers so the room will be paid for.).

But Sarah was rather ticked off with the whole upsetting procedure. “I just don’t know why they wouldn’t just stay at home and swallow a bottle of pills and booze, just like normal people”.

Ah yes, normal has a different meaning to those in ‘the business’.

Taking Souvenirs...

Hector MacKenzie is a very kind and gentle Scottish gentleman who gave up a law practice in the south of England to buy and run an old Highland Hotel filled with antiques, Landseer type paintings, stuffed fish, a row of impressive stag heads and everything you would expect to find in this kind of classic property.

A guest was most impressed with the stags heads. So much so that he stole them in the middle of the night.

Furniture sale...

A chap checked into a country house hotel in the Trossachs, paid cash, then in the middle of the night stole everything that wasn’t nailed down. Big TV from the lounge, coffee table and chairs, you name it. All gone by morning.

‘Pick up thy bed - and run’...

About nine in the morning the manager of a great old hotel on the Ness River overlooking Inverness Castle received a frantic phone call from his housekeeping manager. All the brand new linens and pillow cases from the rooms occupied by the last group had disappeared.

Fortunately, the manager knew the company and their routing. He notified the police then set off in pursuit. The convoy of police cars - and Alan the manager caught up with the group after about an hour. There, on the side of a busy highway, all the luggage of the group was taken off the coach and opened while Alan scurried about collecting the stolen linen stuffing it back in his car.

Same hotel, different year. We were told our rooms weren’t ready. We were not happy, manager was not happy.

The previous group wouldn’t leave. Their guide had neglected to confirm their next night’s accommodation and they had no place to stay so they refused to check out.

After hours of negotiating, shouting and general unpleasantness the crisis ended, the previous guests left and we took over. The one good thing about it was that the hotel had provided us with free booze while waiting. The one bad thing was that the person who had been in our room had closed all the windows and had smoked the most disgusting cigars ever made.

Alan, like Hector, he isn’t in the hotel business anymore.

If you’re beginning to wonder about the types of hotels we choose - they were all four star.

And the bride wore....

It was a wedding reception at an airport Hotel in Glasgow.

The wee chap who works the lounge bar, came running out to the front desk late at night shouting “fight, fight”.

It was. A full fledged ‘hooly’ between the bride and her maid of honor. kicking, biting, punching and scrapping. They had ripped off their dresses - “they didn’t even have shoes or socks on” said one of the reception crew - and were rolling about the floor.

Soon, all the wedding party were involved with bottles and furniture being thrown about as well as the odd body.

A flying squad of police finally managed to put an end to the affair.

“What a mess” was the awe struck comment of one of the staff. “There were false eyelashes, fingernails, flowers and bras and knickers everywhere”.

Ah yes, the uplifting joy of the human condition.

Are we having fun yet? Or - What happens when desire meets reality

Wed, 21 Jul 2010 12:40:23 -0700

“None of this highway stuff. We want to see the Real Scotland. Four wheeling.”

What the heck. I knew somebody who had tons of great Land Rovers available for this kind of thing and I could drive them. Why not?

They were a family from Florida and this was to be a graduation present for one son graduating college, one son graduating high school as well as Mom & Dad - and the girlfriends of the two boys.

I suggested two vehicles but with the cost, they said no, one would do. It would be cramped but do-able with a luggage rack. A few phone calls back and forth, a photo of the beast we would be taking, a discussion of the need to ‘go skinny’ with luggage and we were all set. Pickup was to be at Glasgow Central Station, right in the heart of the city. They were coming up by train from London.

It was a cold May morning when I set off from my base in the central Highlands and headed up over bleak Drumochter pass, the highest road pass in all of Scotland. Bleak, cold - and snowy. Suddenly a tremendous, sharp bang and an entirely unnecessary wibble wobble. Flat tire.

Have you ever changed a tire on an old Land Rover in a stinking wind on a stinking high hill in a stinking snow storm? Huge tires, tiny jack, spare hitched up on the bonnet of the vehicle (or should I say hood?). The Beast was so big I could only reach the tire by standing on the bumper and contorting my body into positions it did not appreciate.

But enough whining. Finally succeeded and headed off with swollen, bruised and frozen fingers and a temper to match.

Parked underground at the station scant minutes before my tiny mob appeared pushing two great big luggage carriers. Not like airport ones but just like the ones in the hotel. Big - and filled.

I was not impressed. The people seemed fine, if a bit ‘bubbly’, but that luggage...To reach the luggage racks I had to climb a ladder at the back of the vehicle which is fun to do when you have a suitcase in your not so free hand. While I toiled, Bwana Jack looked at the Land Rover, sniffed, then muttered: “Kinda small”. I also muttered - things not meant to be heard.

However, eventually with much grunting and even giggling, we set off heading from the bowels of Glasgow to the light. Sadly the only light was from the sky. A power failure put all the traffic lights out of action. Not fun!

By the time we had reached our destination for the day, unpacked all the luggage , scrapped off mud, grease, dirt and sweat, had dinner and chatted charmingly, I slept the sleep of the dead.

It was an interesting 12 days. They didn’t know Bonnie Prince Charlie; they didn’t think Scotland was any different from England; they had allergies to anything natural, they didn’t like all the bumping around from four wheeling, and two of the girls expressed disappointment that there was no place to hang their dresses. Each of the two lady children had brought a different dress for each night.

Somewhere the message must have been lost that we would be staying in B&Bs, guest houses and wee places well away from major centres where they wouldn’t have ironing boards and irons in each room.

It redeemed itself when we stayed for two nights at Torridon, a great old baronial pile deep in the western highlands. It was, and is, a classic of everything Scottish.

The ladies primped and looked gorgeous while the boys managed to come across as the type of North Americans that one does not really want to be close too. The beer was ‘too hot’, not like at home; and the ‘Skatch’ tasted like turpentine, not anything like Jack Daniels.

Late one evening while sitting around the lounge bar surrounded by old claymores, targes, lances from Africa and from old cavalry regiments, one of the boys looked over at Ian Fraser (no relation but a good friend) who ran the huge estate. “Hey bartender, why don’t you get some Coors?” I had to sit up and drink with Ian a long time that night to prevent him from committing dire acts against our North American friends.

Every morning I collected luggage, took it out to the Beast, then climbed the ladder with each suitcase. Sometimes it was raining. Those were not good mornings. When it didn’t rain I usually had two young, healthy men standing beside the vehicle watching; just watching.
Occasionally one or the other would comment on how awkward it all looked or some equally inane statement obviously learned from one of their respective towers of knowledge back in Florida.

Nearing the end, we did not four wheel anymore. They didn’t really like it - “It’s too bumpy”, so we travelled on highways. When visiting Culloden, we were walking the battlefield past the graves of the clans while I described that terrible, sad day for Scotland. As I paused, one of the girls looked at me with what I believed were tears in her eyes. “I never liked history” she said.

By the end, they said they enjoyed it and in some perverse way I think they did. They admitted their knowledge of Scotland had been somewhat thin. They even said they had learned much. However, that came into question on our last day while having a drink at a friend’s house. Our host asked one of the young men if he would like another dram.

“No thanks” was the reply, “but I’d like another Scotch.”

Bev & Andy’s dining adventure

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 11:52:46 -0700

It was one of ‘those’ evenings on the Riviera.

We were in a couple of days early, before the tour began and we were enjoying it.

Our table was set out on the balcony overlooking the med, the candle was lit, the wine was chilled, the dinner had been marvelous - c’est parfait!

About 400 metres from the hotel, was Cap Trois Mille, or Cap three thousand, a remarkable shopping centre for those who hang about Nice and St. Laurent du Var. It’s very nice Nice airport and is filled with a series of deli shops designed to make a food junkie cry with tears of joy and delight.

We had wandered about and chosen our wine, our appetizers and our dinner then walked back to the hotel knowing we had saved many Euros by avoiding the hotel restaurant. We were also having one of our last free evenings before everyone arrived and our journey through Provence began.

Besides, the Holiday Inn Resort is a lovely hotel in a beautiful setting and is one of our all time favorites. Whenever we book for the group we always make sure we have sea facing rooms with balconies. With the soft evening air, the lights along the shore and over by Cap Antibes where F. Scott Fitzgerald played and occasionally wrote, it’s one of those magical experiences.

However, the evening was wearing on, we were tiring, it was time to clean up and go in.

I got up and gave the French Doors a pull. Nothing. Another pull; another nothing. Brilliant ; I had locked us out. I could see the key for the balcony sitting on the desk. Sat back down; felt rather stupid. Didn’t have a cell phone to phone the desk. We were five floors up so there was no way I could even contemplate the old cat burglar trick of going from balcony to balcony. Besides, even if I tried it someone would probably throw me off. Also, there was no one in either of the rooms beside us, nor up above or down below.

I got us into the mess; it was up to Bev to get us out.

Down below on ground level, there was some kind of a small business dinner going on. Bev leaned over and called out. Everyone looked up.

Bev explained we were locked out on the balcony which caused more than a few smiles especially when she added: “But it’s ok, we have our clothes on”.

Now there were more than smiles which increased considerably when she clarified the situation: “And we’re married!”

Within a few minutes there was a tapping at the door of the room. “Great”, I proclaimed, “We’re locked on the balcony and some idiot is waiting for me to open the door”. “We’re on the balcony” I shouted,

With our noses pressed against the glass doors we watched as the door started to open; but only about four inches. Safety first is our motto. I had put the chain on the door preventing any further opening.

A disembodied hand reached through the opening and fumbled and reached and attempted to grab the chain and slid it back through the wee thingy that keeps it locked. Needless to say it didn’t work.

The hand disappeared, the door closed. We waited.
About 15 minutes later - it felt more like an hour - the door reopened its few inches. No hand this time; just a great huge pair of wire cutters which chopped through the chain.

A very french staff member came through, opened our French doors, listened politely while I babbled, then raised one eyebrow in that very french way, and left.

Which would have been fine, but...

...next morning we went to open the safe to get some money out for the day. It wouldn’t open. Tried every conceivable combination to no avail. Phoned down to the front desk who sent up someone to open it for us. Guess who? Of course. The same guy who this time raised the eyebrow just a bit higher as he listened once again to the helpless North American.

Despite all, we had a lovely day, didn’t get run over or get lost. Returned to the hotel and decided to call the other rooms to make sure everyone was in and ready for our departure in the morning.

There was a poltergeist in the room. The damn phone wouldn’t work. Despite my wheedling, whining and cajoling Bev refused to go down to the desk to tell them. I did and then returned to the room with - yes - the same chap who by now was looking, not annoyed, but somewhat concerned.

He replaced the phone but rarely took his eyes off us before making a hasty exit. It is very difficult to walk through the lobby of a hotel while you are being stared at, snickered at and whispered about - by everyone.

“Mon Dieu”, I’m sure they were whispering, “They’re tour operators. Can you imagine what the tour is like?”

Hotels are for sleeping (sometimes)

Wed, 7 Jul 2010 09:15:49 -0700

It was our last night at the Dingle Skellig Hotel, overlooking Dingle Bay, our favourite corner of Ireland. We dined in the conservatory watching the sun set and the first lights from homes across the Bay start to twinkle as the first stars began to appear in the deep purple sky.

If memory serves correctly (and it doesn’t always these days), we were well into September when night falls rather quickly.

Everyone went to bed and if you kept your windows open you could hear the birds chirpling as they settled in for the night along with the sounds of the sea washing up on the shore.

It was most peaceful - until about 10 o’clock when the party started. It was the end of season staff party for all the kids who worked at the hotel for the summer period.

Being a pleasant and rather warm evening, the party moved outdoors and seemed to move parade like all around the perimeter of the hotel. This was not the chirpling birds.

We complained to the front desk. Front desk people obviously came in from the party to answer the phone. The party kept going.

Can’t tell you when it stopped but it was very, very late.

In the morning we trickled in for breakfast. We were the only life forms to be seen. The staff was still in recovery mode. We complained to a rather grim looking young lady at the front desk.

Within a few minutes, the door from the kitchen opened and a shaky waiter appeared carrying a huge tray filled with fried eggs, their yolks gently quivering, causing said waiter to pale considerably, avert his head, place the tray on the counter, then bolt for the door.

Revenge can be a very good feeling.

And in Europe’s most bombed hotel...

The Europa is one of Belfast’s most prestigious hotels that has hosted a raft of dignitaries including Bill Clinton when he was president, Hilary Clinton as Secretary of State just last year, prime ministers, heads of state, football (soccer) stars, actors - and countless journalists.

During the time of the troubles the journalists were there because the Europa was action central for politicians, top police officials and the military.

And because it was action central it also became a target of the IRA. Between 1972 and 1994 the Europa was bombed some 33 times which was even more hits at one target than any building during World War II.

It was always a very polite bombing with the IRA warning the hotel and police so everyone could get out of the way before the blast. No one was ever injured and the hotel staff became very proficient at moving guests out in a hurry and in keeping everyone away from the window seats in the dining room.

A few years back our coach was pulling up to the hotel to check in when we noticed great mobs of people milling about on the sidewalks and streets - right at the hotel. Bev and I looked at each other. “Oh No - Please No”. Bev barged through the mobs and into the hotel while I blethered on about a bus strike (the main terminal was beside the hotel). We were not going to say the “B” word. And we didn’t have to. Bev returned, told everyone to take their hand luggage then led them into the hotel.

It was just a bomb scare at the bus terminal. (False one, needless to stay.)

We have stayed there a few times but our last time was at the same time the hotel hosted some big British music awards show which went on all night. No matter how far removed one was from the rock bands, the reverberation of the bass speakers thrummed into the rooms all night.

After complaints and a bit of a shouting match, that was the end of our Europa affair.
Belfast is growing rapidly with many new hotels. We’re in one of the new ones now.

And sometimes we think that just maybe some of those previous bomb scares at the Europa might have come from some twisted tour operators. Maybe.

Smoke Detectors Do Work...

They’re not quite as bad as all night parties in the hotel or drunks outside your window, but fire alarms, which mostly occur at night, are right up there.

We were staying at the Lansdowne, a nice friendly small hotel in Dublin when the fire bells started their clanging and banging at some unholy hour of the night. Off we went, quickly grabbing keys, rooming list, package of wallet and passports which we always keep near the door.

It was the night before the tour began and we were able to meet everyone outside the hotel and see just what kind of intimate night attire everyone was wearing. A great ice breaker, it set the tone for a fun tour through Ireland.

Channings is a wonderful small hotel in Edinburgh with very high ratings. In fact, during the International Book Festival which takes place when we’re there, many internationally famous authors use the hotel.

Authors and others all had to make the trek outside a few years back thanks to a couple of real wizard business types who sat up late in one of the lounges smoking cigars (it was allowed then) under smoke detectors. Again the opportunity to check out late night attire.

We did have a morning alarm at our 14th century half timbered hotel in Lavenham, England many years ago while having breakfast. All the English guests acted like proper English. Which means they did nothing. Sort of peeked upto see what others were doing, then kept eating their bacon and eggs until the Dining Manager raced through yelling at everyone to get out because they were in a 14th century wooden building.

Out on the lawn waiting for the all-clear we watched as an emergency door on the second floor opened and a rather sheepish looking threesome - two rather charming young ladies and one gentleman appeared all wearing white bath robes. As they made their way down the fire escape stairs, they studiously averted their heads to avoid the somewhat bemused - and grining - looks of those of us waiting.

Travel really does broaden the mind.

Locks (or not), lodgings - and bagpipes

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 09:33:20 -0700

There are no keys for the rooms in the Glenfinnan House Hotel! Never have been and most likely never will.

It’s one of those old fashioned Highland Hotels that has been family run for a great many bunches of years by some wonderful people. It’s small and it has a ghost - a most mild mannered ghost who just sort of has a presence in one room.

And it also has a ceiling that fell down while we were staying there and which we wrote about in an earlier blog.

During the days when we stayed there Charlie Macfarlane would pipe everyone down to dinner. In fact Charlie would pipe whenever and wherever he had an opportunity. He would come out on the coach with us to regale us with tales of the old highlands and the clans and of course he would bring his pipes. He even piped on the bus. That is a sound you never forget! It puts all those vuvuzela’s at the World Cup games to shame.

By the way, that’s Charlie cutting the grass at Glenfinnan. He’s one of the few Scots that always wears his kilt.

Charlie would also pipe at Loch Nan Uamh at the small monument indicating the spot from where Bonnie Prince Charlie both landed and departed on the Scottish mainland.

And not only has he piped for the Queen but he also piped for seals.

We had stopped the coach on the shores of Loch Sunart on the south shore of the Ardnamurchan peninsula to look for seals that normally basked on the rocks near the shore. As usual when you try and arrange something like that - nothing. Until Charlie cranked up his pipes.

Tiny shiny heads started popping up - listening.

It was a surreal moment that pulled us back to a moment of living in the mists of ancient celtic fairy stories of the legendary seal people.

But I digress. Glenfinnan House was, and hopefully still is, a magic little hotel.

Unlike so many of the modern 300 and 400 room monsters that house us like bees in a hive.

When it comes to hotels (and lots of other things as well), we are living in a cooky cutter world. Each monster box stamped from the same mold and each claiming to be uniquely different and ‘created especially for you’.

Once upon a time the people at the reception desk would hand you a key (except at Glenfinnan). A real key usually attached to a beastly chunk of wood or metal, sometimes with claw-like appendages that would do terrible and possibly permanent damage especially if put in a pocket followed by an attempt to sit down.

Now they give you a piece of plastic - and they smile. They know that when you reach the room,always at the far end of a very long corridor, you are never quite sure if the plastic goes in flat or from the top or from the bottom or upside down. Now there is another alternative. You just hold it flat to a plate on the door.

Not that all of this works. As often as not, whatever the shape it doesn’t work and down you go back to reception to have it swiped or explained.

Isn’t it amazing how the team at reception all look the same no matter what hotel, no matter what city, no matter what country.

From Luxembourg to Leningrad - or Lethbridge, all the newer hotels are the same.

Dining rooms provide their ‘unique’ international cuisine which translates as the same stuff wherever you are.

The concept of individuality has gone. If you’re in a city you can walk across the street and board a big red sightseeing bus that will show you all the major highlights with a headphone set that accommodates seven different languages.

A visit to the local palace and the cathedral where you shuffle along with a local boring guide and there, it’s done. Move on to the next city for the same round of blandness.

Bad stuff is being created in our travel world. And it’s being foisted on us became we have become a market driven society. Tell us what to buy and we buy it. Tell us what to wear and we wear it. Tell us what to believe and we believe it.

Maybe that’s one of the big reasons why we’re seriously thinking of branching out in a different direction. Trying to be even smaller, searching out the honestly different accommodations that truly does reflect the local character, and staying in places where the country or the area is reflected by and from the real people who live in real places.

And maybe places where there are no keys for the rooms.

Of tulips, tractors and sheep...

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 09:23:49 -0700

“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” - Robert Louis Stevenson

Travel really does broaden the mind. How else would you discover that Suleyman The Magnificent, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire from 1520 to 1566 had tulips embroidered on his underwear?

Honest! We wouldn’t kid you on that one. Suleyman was just carrying on the love affair the Ottomans had with the Tulip since the year 1,000 (give or take). In fact the Dutch were introduced to the Tulip by the Turks in the later years of the 17th century.

Even today the Turks celebrate April with Tulip Festivals throughout the country. The word Tulip actually translates as Tulbent, the Turkish word for Turban and in the first half of the 17th century there were more than 300 professional Tulip growers in Turkey.

Sultans, Grand Viziers, and at leas one Chief Justice were all avid growers of Tulips to the point that the early 1700s in Turkey is still known as “The Tulip Period”.

And the embroidered underwear? Quite common at one period including embroidered tulips on cushions, curtains and clothing as well as engravings in books, paintings and any manner of decorations.

We’ll check out the underwear when we visit Istanbul and Turkey in October.

Help Police - the hedge is too big...

It’s sort of frustrating walking down a street with a spouse or a friend and you come to a patch where you have to go single file because someone’s hedge is growing over the sidewalk.

Call the cops! But only if you live in Jersey in the Channel Islands. It is an offense to allow your hedges or trees or bushes or what have you out over the sidewalk impeding anyone and it is enforced.

There are many weird and strange laws that have managed to remain on the books throughout those islands of British Heritage but the Hedge law isn’t one of them. It’s an enforced law which is checked up on every year.

Very neat and tidy on Jersey.

It was fun being feudal...

...In Sark, the island which ceased to be the last Feudal state in Europe in 2008 when they allowed free elections to form a parliament. Before that they were ruled by the Seigneur, the hereditary Lord of the Island. The residents had been happy with the way it was but the European Council of Human Rights didn’t think feudalism had a place in the modern world.

A fascinating little place with just a few hundred people and a bunch of tractors. The tractors are the only motor powered vehicles allowed on the islands. It’s not too big an island, only 2.10 square miles so foot power, horse and cart and bicycles are the big people movers.

If you need an ambulance while on Sark, a tractor will come pulling a small trailer which will whisk you away to the clinic.

The Germans occupied all the Channel Islands, including Sark, during WWII but there was one other attempted invasion in 1990 when an unemployed French nuclear physicist attempted to take over the island.

Monsieur André Gardes landed at night with a semi-automatic weapon and prepared for his attack by placing signs around the island telling of his intentions to attack at noon.
The following morning, while sitting on a park bench cleaning his weapon he was peacefully arrested by the islands volunteer constable.

No one was hurt and it was not considered necessary to bring in body scanners to put in place at the tiny dock, the only landing place for Sark.

All was quiet when we visited a few years ago, although the parking lot for bicycles was full at the local grocery store.

Outnumbered...

The Highland Scots are a hardy breed. They have to be. Wars against the Vikings, wars against the English, and even more damaging, clan wars against themselves have all taken a toll.

Living conditions have always been tough up north and even today it is the rare person who can survive by holding only one job. And yet they remain. Their land is as much a part of them as their own flesh and blood.

That unique spirit is just one of the reasons we love the highlands and spend most of our time on our Scottish tours amongst the mountains and glens.

But they are outnumbered. Not necessarily by the people to the south but by the animals.

Did you know that out of a total population of just over five million, less than 300,000 live in the Highlands and Islands, a land mass that is 50% of Scotland? And did you know there are about the same number of red deer in the highlands and that there are more than one million sheep up there as well?

On our tours we usually manage to see all three species - even the humans.

Sometimes things go right

Wed, 9 Jun 2010 10:44:36 -0700

You may have noticed by now that over the past 24 years on tour many things have gone awry, have gone astray, or just plain buggered up.

By itself not much reason to be in this business - unless you’re like the guy that kept banging his head on the wall because it felt so good when he stopped.

There is another side to it and other reasons that counter the more than 100 trans Atlantic flights and standing in airport line ups.

Many reasons.

Bob’s parents had come from Scotland and he had wanted to see the land of his people so he came on tour with us. One day on the coach he mentioned he still had the address where his mom and dad had lived in Perth. We were near Perth so with just a little deviation (and a few wrong ways on one way streets) we found the right street. Thankfully the house was still standing.

While Bob too photos of the place, we noticed the lace curtains moving so we convinced to knock on the door.

Not only was he invited in to look around but the old dear who lived there wanted everyone on the coach to come in for a “wee cup of tea.”

It felt good. Bob had come home.

Other moments:

Watching the fortune tellers, the guy with a trained monkey, a group of drummers from Senegal, water sellers, carpet makers, dyers and breathing in the exotic smell of spices and fresh fruit in the market of Marrakech was an incredible experience. Nothing has changed here for centuries. We were walking through living history.

So too was the quiet little corner of the woods near Munlochy ,near Inverness. It’s a ‘clootie well’, a place where people have gone to an old spring for centuries to make their wishes, say their prayers, express their hopes by leaving small pieces of cloth or items of clothing of loved ones. This has been happening here since long before the Christian era.

The surrounding trees and bushes are still covered with these visible hopes and prayers and during the terrible days following Dunkirk, when the 51st Highland Division of more than 8,000 men were left behind, thousands of bits of rag were tied to thousands of trees from family members and friends throughout the Highlands.

And living history too. As we were leaving a middle aged woman was tying a bit of rag to a bush. Her husband had just been diagnosed with a brain tumour. She wasn’t one of the weird types you might expect, she wasn’t a tree hugger. She was only doing what people have always done here.

There is magic on the Dingle Peninsula. We drive about 60 kilometres (36 miles) and it takes us the whole day. So much history, so much beauty, so many neat little places to stop and stare - at the sea, at the distant islands, at the hills, or the shorelines. Just stare and breathe in something wonderful.

Differences:

Walking through a French market checking out the countless varieties of Olives, the stunning array of baking, the freshness of the vegetables and produce, and the interplay of the customers with their wicker baskets and baguettes and the shopkeepers.

Or maybe driving alongside the Loire and seeing in the distance the fairy tale castle on the cliff rising above the town of Saumur.

So many reasons. While driving across the bleak peat bogs of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides one of our guests mentioned she used to be pen pals with someone from Stornoway before the war. She remembered her name but they lost track of each other during the war. Later, in Stornoway Bev checked at the Post Office to see if the person still lived there. A long shot but worth trying. The young clerk didn’t know, but she called the retired postmaster who phoned Bev that night. Not only did he remember the person but knew she had moved to Edinburgh and here was the phone number.

Eventually the two former pen pals, who had never met and who had been out of touch more than 60 years, got together in Glasgow in the lobby of the Holiday Inn Airport Hotel. That was one of those very special times when everyone wanders around with a silly smile and tears in their eyes.

Incidentally, the elderly Edinburgh lady was the mother of Alaistair Darling, the British Chancellor of the Exchequer at the time.

Some sights:

The sparking, twinkling, dancing stars of the night sky in the hills above Conwy in Wales and the soft pastel tones of the air in Provence, those same tones that drew Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso, Renoir, Gaugin and many others to try to interpret something mystical.

The painful beauty of the rich green soil of Normandy and Flanders, nourished from the blood and souls of so many young men who answered that terrible, compelling sound of the drum.

There is a strange, heartbreaking closeness with those graves that comes upon us every time we wander the cemeteries of Vimy, of Normandy, of Dieppe. And there is a certain joy that comes from seeing children playing on Juno Beach and on Omaha Beach. Children playing is perhaps the best memorial and legacy these young men left behind.

Sharing these many special moments, meeting old friends each year, returning to special places of the heart or anticipating new friends and new places - such as the exotic Istanbul, Cappadocia and Ephesus this October, keep us in awe of this fascinating world and those of us who dwell here.

More than balances the other side.