Torture by Crow

There are many lovely birds in East Africa, but the Indian House Crow is not one of them. Small, but noisy and aggressive, these brutes are everywhere on the Red Sea coast. Thankfully, there is a plethora of other, rather more pleasing birds and an interesting array of other wildlife.

Assab, unfortunately, is overrun by crows, a fate shared by the other large town on the coast, Massawa. The birds are not even big, roughly the size of a jackdaw, but they are everywhere and they are not nice. Even worse, they are not a native species. Somebody, possibly with a long-standing grudge against the entire eastern coastline of Africa, imported them and they have proliferated to the point where they are a genuine pest. These really are birds that could start a fight in the proverbial empty room.

Hilariously, these psychotic birds glory in the Latin name of Corvus splendens, which at least proves that the scientific community is possessed of a well-developed sense of irony. Personally, I would have opted for Corvus absurdis.

Nemesis

The only other bird that exists in large numbers on Eritrea’s coast is the Sooty Gull. These are also quite small for their species, but in contrast to the rancorous crows, are virtually silent. In this, they are not a typical gull. They lead a rather peaceful life and it’s hard to escape the conclusion that they used to be more like most other gulls, but once the crows had arrived, gave up any vocal activity as a lost cause.

Unsurprisingly, given the heat and humidity, Assab is not teeming with birds, being especially barren during the intensely hot months of June, July and August. However, a bit of time and patience can be very rewarding and spending enough time there will reveal a few treasures. It’s not the sort of place for a birder to compile a long list in a short space of time – Asmara is a much better bet for that kind of thing – but a couple of years in the area guarantees an impressive collection.

The local stars were ospreys. It was common to see two pairs of these raptors fishing in the Red Sea near Assab. The pairs were in surprisingly close proximity, but presumably the fishing was so good that there were no territorial disputes. Having come to the conclusion that afternoon siestas were not for me, I would often wander down to the coast for a swim and in hope of spotting the ospreys. More often than not, I was rewarded.

Watching them hunt, you realised that catching a fish takes a lot of work, even for these skilled birds. There is a lot of hovering and quite a lot of backing out of dives. The feet-first plunges often produce no result, but when the strike happens, it is spectacular and one of the great sights of nature, as the bird struggles to get airborne with a large fish in its talons. Once the fish is hooked, it is rarely dropped.

It’s much easier to tick off species in the highland areas. Even a day or two in Asmara should provide a sizeable list. Asmara has some pleasant residential areas with lots of gardens and brightly coloured flowers, and these attract plenty of small and often equally brightly coloured birds. Clearly, the numbers depend on the amount of interest of the observer and anyone with an enthusiasm for birds, even quite experienced birders, will find it easier with a book. I was rarely without my Birds of East Africa guide.

The guide book is invaluable, but it’s still hard at times to be certain of something you’ve spotted. A lot of weaver birds, for example, are very similar in appearance and it can be very difficult to be certain of a particular species, even when you’ve been staring at it through binoculars for some time. When even an internationally respected ornithologist advises that it’s difficult to tell the difference between certain species, there isn’t much chance for the rest of us.

Happily, there are lots of birds that can’t be mistaken for anything else. In Asmara, a common sight is that of a smallish brown bird with a long tail and stumpy wings flitting into a palm tree. This is the Speckled Mousebird, an engaging character that scurries around trees searching for fruit and berries. The punky crest on top of the head adds to its endearing appearance, which is indeed rather mouse-like when it is bustling around in the trees.

Speckled Mousebird

Another bird that it is impossible to mistake for anything else is the extraordinary Hammerkop. These moderately large waders are found around lakes and have the appearance of a brown heron that has been hit over the head with a blunt instrument. They also possess an unrivalled enthusiasm for building nests, even constructing them when they are not breeding. Hammerkop nests are huge, built of sticks and often covered in any shiny objects they happen to come across.

Hamerkop

There are lots of different doves and pigeons throughout all of East Africa. Even in Assab, there is a variety of species, including two at either end of the size range. In the heavyweight corner is the Speckled Pigeon, a bulky bird with a very distinctive red patch around the eyes. It is also – forgive the element of surprise – speckled. In the flyweight corner is the tiny Namaqua Dove, which is the size of a sparrow and stands out because of its remarkably long tail, which serves to make it look rather bigger than it really is. Namaquas often feed on the ground and the first sighting of one can take the observer by surprise. They look like pigeons, move like pigeons and, of course, are pigeons, but they look too small to be real, appearing to have been imported from some miniature Swiftian world.

Namaqua dove

Along with my bird guide, I had taken a pair of binoculars and also packed a snorkel and pair of goggles. I did without the flippers, as I wasn’t the strongest swimmer and wasn’t planning to go that deep, but there was enough underwater life near the coastline to keep me interested. The life around the coral reefs is especially diverse and often very colourful.

Unfortunately, a combination of short-sightedness and a complete lack of knowledge regarding marine life rather curtails any in-depth analysis. I can safely say that there were lots of gaudy butterfly fish and a fair collection of crustaceans. One day, I came face to pincer with a substantial lobster. I backed off. I had further uses for my nose.

If the lobster looked as though it could dish out a bit of pain, the sharks that appeared around the reefs from time to time were certainly worth avoiding on that score. These, I learned from the people at the Ministry of Marine Resources, were Black-tipped Reef Sharks. They weren’t, it must be admitted, exactly the stuff of scary movies, being around four feet long, but they were nevertheless sharks and sharks have teeth. Very sharp teeth. They are, however, just as nervous of people as people are of them and making a bit of noise and stamping your feet on the sand was enough to send them scuttling into deeper water.

Black tipped reef shark

While I managed to avoid injury by lobster claw or shark tooth, I wasn’t so lucky with the coral. Corals are, of course, living creatures, marine invertebrates and, as such, animals. It’s probably safe to say that there was no intention on the part of the corals to cause me damage, but cause it they did.

It can often be quite windy on the Red Sea Coast and the sea can become a bit choppy at times. I never used to venture out too far, but even within my limited orbit, it could throw you around a bit. So it was one afternoon when I took a swim. Finding myself being churned around in increasingly vigorous waves, I decided to get back to the beach and struck out with a vigorous breast stroke.

What I struck was a very sharp coral. I’d avoided drowning, which was a distinct positive, but now I had a big gash in the palm of my right hand. I washed it and surveyed the damage. It was bleeding quite a lot, but didn’t seem to be life threatening. I was quite near the group of houses where the UN volunteers lived, so I wound my tee-shirt around my hand and set off for the house of an Australian UN volunteer called Michael. He was bound to have a first-aid box or something similar.

Michael and his wife cleaned and patched me up. I’d live to fight another coral. We had a couple of bottles of beer, which helped to numb the pain a bit. Restored to some sort of functionality, I proffered my thanks and wandered off towards home. When I’d got about a mile down the road, I suddenly realised that I had another, albeit more minor, problem, this one more socio-cultural than physical.

It’s all very well wandering about on the beach without a shirt on, but it’s not really polite to do it in other areas. I would need to walk past the Port Club, the church and quite a few houses before I got home. Of course, what I should have done was to borrow a shirt, but I wasn’t going to walk all the way back to Michael’s house again. I had a shirt, but it was covered in blood. I pondered the dilemma.

It was a simple enough choice. Either I went topless and offended social norms or I put on my blood-drenched shirt. I decided to wear the shirt. It was still daylight and I wasn’t going to hang around in hiding until it was dark enough to sneak home unnoticed. Besides which, more people came out after dark when it was cooler, so that wasn’t going to work, anyway. Thankfully, I didn’t encounter too many people and even better, didn’t bump into anyone I knew. The few people who did spot me, I noticed, kept a considerable distance. I clearly had that authentic street fighting man look.

In my two years in Eritrea, I did not see one snake. They certainly existed, a fact which one unfortunate Norwegian visiting Assab would have testified to readily. He was bitten by one, thankfully without any form of lasting damage. This, however, was the single occasion on which I heard anything about snakes.

I did, after a fashion, see a scorpion. More accurately, I saw the shattered remnants of the creature after it had been battered to death at the teachers’ house. Steve had an even closer encounter with it. Waking up one morning, he distractedly reached out to remove what he thought was a leaf from the top of his mosquito net. What he actually picked up was a small scorpion. Luckily for Steve, the arachnid had evidently been somewhat knocked out by the chemicals sprayed onto the net and was not in any shape to retaliate. I usually wore sandals, but I got into the habit of checking my shoes or walking boots before I put them on.

One common arachnid was the little black and white jumping spider that seemed to be everywhere. As the name suggests, they do not spin webs, but capture their prey by the simple, but evidently highly effective, expedient of leaping on it. They seemed to be able to jump in any direction and with considerable accuracy. Along with the ubiquitous geckos, these spiders were quite welcome in my house. Anything that disposed of insects was a friend of mine, unless it was a crow.

Even the geckos and spiders might have steered clear of the large black wasps, one of which decided to build a nest on the door of my office. Architecturally and aesthetically, the nest was a wonderful domed structure, carefully put together from chewed wood, and really quite impressive. From a practical point of view, trying to bypass an angry wasp protective of its nest and young was not the most appealing prospect. The refinery’s maintenance men duly removed the nest, only for the wasp to start again in the same place. The maintenance men shifted it for a second time. Thankfully the wasp appeared to be aware of the WC Fields adage ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then give up. No use being a damned fool about it’ and duly vanished to rebuild in a quieter spot.

Insects were not in short supply. It would have taken millions more insectivores to keep the population down to even plague proportions. It was almost impossible to be outside for a few seconds without having flies buzzing around your head. I decided to watch the sun rise one morning when I was at the VSO annual meeting in Massawa. I got up at five o’clock and walked to the beach. Even at that hour, it was blisteringly hot and I seemed to have attracted more flies than a herd of cattle.

It’s impossible to forget one sight. We – the Assab volunteers – went to a small restaurant one day to have some lunch. From a distance, it seemed that the place had acquired a job lot of black tablecloths. It was only when you got closer and the waiters started waving tea towels around that you realised that the ‘tablecloths’ were, in fact, vast swarms of flies. Suddenly, everybody experienced a loss of appetite and we settled for a cold drink instead.

And then there were the mosquitoes. VSO must spend a fortune on anti-malarial pills. It’s just as well, because it’s impossible to avoid bites, however many precautions you take. You can cover yourself in all kinds of repellent sprays, creams, gels and liquids. You can sleep under netting. You can – if you can bear wearing extra clothing in such high temperatures – cover yourself up. One way or another, they will get you.

Sometimes, it’s in unexpected ways. On a visit to Asmara, I stayed in the same hotel as John, a UN volunteer who was in Assab as a fishing advisor. One morning, he appeared with a nasty gash above his left eyebrow that made him look as though he had taken up boxing and come through a 12-round bout against a particularly aggressive opponent. What had happened in reality was that he’d had a mosquito in his room. In his desperate attempts to swat the pest, he’d fallen out of bed and cracked his head on the bedside table. Directly or indirectly, they will always find a way to inflict damage.

Usually, though, it comes down to more traditional methods. After a long and thoroughly enjoyable Christmas Day party, which had inevitably involved a considerable amount of alcohol, I fell asleep on the large and comfortable sofa at the large house occupied by Michael. Being clad in only tee-shirt and shorts, I had no chance. A couple of days later, I looked like an overcooked pizza. Things were so drastic that people began to visit my office on the flimsiest of excuses just so they could survey the damage. In fact, they often didn’t have excuses. I took the only reasonable course of action. I locked the door.

One of the many beauties of the air conditioning in my house was that doors and windows could be kept shut, with the result that incursions by mosquitoes and flies were rare. It was easy enough to deal with isolated insurgents. I wasn’t spared irritation, though. Crickets seemed to find ways to get into any house and had a trick that seemed especially vindictive. They would wait until you’d put the lights out and then start chirping. It became a game. Put the lights on and the chirping stopped. Put them off and the racket resumed.

It was hard to know whether the crickets were more annoying than the cockroaches. It was a close run thing. Cockroaches are in no way lovable and Western culture, in particular, has demonised them into a Kafka nightmare. On the other hand, at least cockroaches don’t make an infernal din when you’re trying to get to sleep.

Cockroaches are rather cumbersome creatures and I got a bit of a shock one day when something cold, solid and unpleasant landed on me as I lay on my bed, reading. The cockroach must have been attempting a crossing of my ceiling and fallen off. It certainly made me jump and I flung the thing across the room, where it cannoned off the wall and onto the floor, where is spun around on its back. Seizing my advantage, I kicked it towards the front door and booted it into the street, whereupon it was seized by a crow. It was the first time I’d realised that the crows had any practical use. It may well have been the last time as well.

A more painful encounter involved a beetle, the make of which I have no idea. It was, presumably, some kind of stag beetle and it certainly had a powerful set of pincers. This I knew because they were embedded in my left arm as I sat at the table in my house, writing a letter. How the beetle arrived there, I cannot possibly guess. The point – or rather, two points – was that it had attached itself to me in a very determined manner.

With surprisingly cold and logical judgement, I assessed the situation. Instinct would have been to attempt to pull the thing off. Clearly, this would not be a good idea, as it would involve losing a portion of my skin. I was holding a pen and this provided the obvious solution. With great care, I prised the pincers apart and the insect, with some reluctance, released its grip. I scooped it into a cup and put it outside. My arm suffered a bit of damage and it was a long time before the scar disappeared.

The place had become something of an entomologist’s paradise, but even so, I was reluctant to use the various aerosols and sprays that were available in the local shops. While I wanted to get rid of the battalions of insects, I was worried that I might do some damage to the more welcome visitors like spiders and geckos.

I discovered that geckos had an interesting mechanism to deal with one type of threat. I had been doing some laundry in the shower room and had left some clothes to soak in a bucket. When I went to retrieve them, there was also a small lizard splashing about. It had evidently fallen in from somewhere and despite the renowned ability of lizards for clinging to pretty much anything, didn’t seem to be having any luck in getting out. It was perfectly undamaged, but clearly a bucket of water is not ideal lizard habitat.

Carefully removing the reptile, I was startled as it leapt from my hand and scurried away. I was even more shocked to find that most of its tail was still in the palm of my hand and wriggling around, apparently with a life of its own. As I stared at the writhing tail, somewhere in the recesses of my memory I recalled that lizards could shed their tails when trying to escape danger. I couldn’t have scared it too much, though, as I continued to see the by now tailless gecko scampering around my house and I was able to check its progress as the tail grew back.

Mammalian life was quite hard to find. In the semi desert areas around Assab, one of the few mammals to be found was a small ground squirrel. There are also mongooses, though my only encounter with them was a fleeting view from a car. In the highland areas, it’s not too difficult to come across the Hamadryas Baboon or Vervet Monkey. To find the charismatic, grass munching Gelada Baboon, however, one must cross into Ethiopia, as this species lives only in the Ethiopian mountains.

Gelada

Something that it’s impossible to miss is the omnipresent camel, or dromedary to be precise. These haughty beasts are the symbol of Eritrea and appear on all sorts of official documents. The emblem of the country depicts a camel surrounded by a laurel wreath. Camels also appear in great numbers in real life. In the town of Keren, to the north of Asmara, a wood market is held on Saturdays. The visitor is treated to the remarkable sight of hundreds of camels, bearing enormous quantities of wood, arriving from the surrounding towns and villages.

The intrepid explorer, if very fortunate, can find exotic mammals. A few elephants survive in Eritrea, in areas to the west of Asmara. The same region throws up the occasional report of a lion, though there has been no concrete evidence recently. Leopards are certainly found in Eritrea, though they are largely nocturnal. There are, reportedly, several species of dolphin to be found off the Red Sea coast and the rare dugong is also an inhabitant of the area. Sadly, I had no joy in spotting any such creatures during my very occasional boat trips.

Nor did I have any luck in seeing a bird that I’d always wanted to see, a hornbill. It didn’t matter what sort of hornbill, any hornbill would do. I was thrilled, then, when I heard from Clare, a volunteer (and fellow birder and Scrabble fan) based in Mai Habar, a town to the east of Asmara. Hornbills were, she wrote, regularly found in the grounds of the technical college where she taught and lived.

I had some leave available and Clare invited me to come up for a few games of Scrabble and some birdwatching. This was a very appealing prospect and I duly arranged my flights to Asmara. I caught the bus to Mai Habar and after a bit of confusion, found my way to the college. It was too late for watching birds, but perfect time for dinner, followed by a few bottles of Melotti and a game of Scrabble.

It was, of course, entirely predictable that in the two days I spent in Mai Habar, not a single hornbill would make an appearance. It was a lovely place to wander around, with its abundant orange and lemon trees and we saw lots of birds, but not one of them a hornbill. A few months later, Clare sent me a photograph she’d taken of two hornbills in the grounds of the college (‘just to prove I wasn’t making it up’). It took me a long time and two more trips to sub-Saharan Africa before I saw one, the small black and white Von der Decken’s Hornbill near the town of Mekele in the north of Ethiopia.

Among the birds we saw in Mai Habar were various types of sunbird, relatives of hummingbirds and often just as dazzling in terms of plumage. The highland areas were full of sunbirds and Asmara had its fair share. A trip to the VSO field office in the capital was a pleasant experience; you usually bumped into somebody you knew and you could spend an hour or so sitting in the front garden, having a chat and a cup of tea while watching the sunbirds flitting in and out as they fed on the nectar from the flowers.

We didn’t get too many dazzlingly bright birds in Assab, but one of the oddities of the place was that you could go for weeks without seeing anything interesting and then be completely taken aback. So it was one afternoon when, walking along the beach, I saw a pelican perching on a rock. A few weeks later, I saw another pelican. Even more strangely, they were different species. The first was a Pink-backed Pelican, the second the much larger White Pelican.

If I’d been surprised by the pelicans, the kingfisher astonished me. Walking into town to do some shopping one day, I saw a bird perching in a tree near the port. I didn’t have binoculars with me, but luckily it was very close and it was immediately obvious that it was a kingfisher. I stared at it and puzzled as to why a kingfisher would be here, in this searingly hot place on the edge of a desert. If there were any rivers or streams, I certainly wasn’t aware of them. Nor, as far as I knew, did kingfishers catch sea fish.

In fact, this particular kingfisher didn’t catch fish at all. My bird book was able to explain everything. It was a Grey-headed Kingfisher, a dry-country and completely non-aquatic bird. Hunting from tree perches, it fed on insects and small lizards and we were not short of either.

The only other time that I was completely stopped in my tracks was when I saw a bright flash of purple hurtling into a tree near the beach. The culprit was the glorious Violet-backed Starling, a riot of iridescent purple with white underparts. I’d seen plenty of flashy starlings in the highland areas, but this was the only one that I saw in Assab.

Violet-backed starling

At least this one was easy to recognise. Some starlings can look completely different depending on the light. Two people standing in different spots can look at the same bird and see different things. Bird books can never do justice to the colours. Blue-eared Glossy Starlings, for example, can look bright blue from one angle, but deep green from another. Identification can be hard work and often comes down to a process of elimination. There is an element of the Sherlock Holmes method about it, whereby the impossible is eliminated and the truth is found somewhere among what remains.

It felt just as strange to see the odd bird that gave you a reminder of walking by the coast at home. Now and then, you would spot redshanks, oystercatchers, knots or other types of wader that are so familiar in Britain. It felt odd to see birds like this, as they appeared totally out of context. I was used to seeing them when the temperatures were around 30 to 40 degrees less than they were in Assab.

Something that I saw every day, albeit from a considerable distance, was a flock of Egyptian Geese. They evidently roosted on one of the small islands in the Red Sea, flying back on to the mainland early in the morning. Their arrival usually coincided with my arrival at the gates of the refinery at six o’clock in the morning. Doubtless they returned to their island when the sun went down in the afternoon.

It was crows, though, that dominated the scene in Assab. They were unavoidable in terms of both sight and sound. They weren’t perturbed by people very much, either, being quite happy to treat people with the same naked aggression that they showed towards everything else, including each other. Heather, a volunteer who had very blonde hair, seemed to suffer worse than most among the human inhabitants. Sensibly, she wore a hat much of the time, but even in the sea she was not immune from crow bombardment. There seemed to be something about her hair colour that appealed to the brutes. Nobody else suffered in this way. Even Ursula, another VSO colleague, whose hair was quite fair, had no such problem. Evidently, crows prefer blondes.

I suffered little physical harm from crows, the damage being mostly psychological. I didn’t escape completely, though. I’d wandered out of my office one morning to have a cigarette and I received a sharp clump on the back of my head. The offender, predictably enough, was a crow. My crime had been to walk underneath a nest and the crows, who seemed permanently enraged at the best of times, had taken exception. A pair of them continued to scream at me from the tree under which I’d sought shade and I made my way back to my office by sliding carefully along the wall of the building to make further attacks a trickier operation. I made sure that my future strolls took me in the opposite direction.

At the Port Club one Sunday afternoon, I was having a drink with John. Some people had recently left and their plates and glasses were still on a table near us. One of the glasses had some beer left in it. A crow landed on the table, and finding the plates empty, hopped up onto the rim of the glass. It duly stuck its beak into the glass and slurped up some beer. It did this a few times before being disturbed by another crow. The pair then engaged in a vigorous skirmish, thrashing around on the table, chairs and ground before flying away.

We had to laugh and we did. In fact, we laughed for quite a long time. Lager lout crows. It could only happen in Assab.

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User Requests

A few of Duck Holiday’s regular readers (yes, there are one or two) recently suggested that there is scope for a foray to Africa on these pages. Now, as the blog title suggests, these ramblings are chiefly concerned with Eastern Europe, but since we have had the odd venture into other parts of the European continent, there seems no great problem in having a little look around other parts of the planet.

Duck Holiday has, at various times, ventured south of the Sahara. Not that the word “holiday” should be associated with these particular forays. “Duck Volunteer” might be a more suitable name in the circumstances.

To be precise, Duck Holiday has undertaken service with VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas) on three separate occasions. By far the longest of these was in the Red Sea coast town of Assab in Eritrea. This posting was at an oil refinery; do not be fooled into thinking that VSO volunteers are largely schoolteachers. Volunteers come in all shapes and sizes; I have encountered carpenters, bricklayers, car mechanics, archaeologists, pharmacists, tourism specialists, marine biologists and even fashion designers over the years.

The Eritrea posting lasted for two years. There have been shorter stints on specific projects in Accra in Ghana and the city of Mekele, in the northern part of Ethiopia. Over the coming weeks, the intention is to bring a flavour of these countries and towns to these pages.

For those who can face it, there is a full and detailed account of the Eritrean venture in the book Life in the Sauna: Diary of a VSO Volunteer, currently available at a remarkably cheap price on Amazon. Those who are interested might like to visit the following link, though if anyone should wish to acquire the book directly from me, he or she is welcome to contact me through this blog.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1785072811/ref=od_aui_detailpages00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

Meanwhile, just as a taster, we shall leave you with a glimpse of the wonderfully hectic main market in Accra.

Not Tesco

Gullible’s Travels

(Or: How Not to Travel; a true story)

Jonathan was not a small man. Close to seven feet tall and of some considerable bulk, he was not someone built to be inconspicuous. Despite, or possibly because of, his Gargantuan frame, he seemed to have a need, not to mention an aptitude, to draw attention to himself.

Hair appeared to be purely an optional addition on top of his vast head. When it did emerge, it was of a sparse blond nature, hinting at reddish. When it was absent, his head often revealed the dangers of personal head shaving and he took on the aspect of a man who has had a fortunate and very narrow escape from an abattoir.

It is, of course, difficult for very large people to find clothing that comes close to fitting. Stylishness is a near impossibility, even for the most meticulous. However, Jonathan had the uncanny knack of acquiring clothes that were designed (and this allows for a very loose usage of the word) for people even bigger than himself.

One pair of jeans must have been liberated from a circus. They could only have been made for somebody who walked on stilts. The turn-ups were, possibly, the world’s longest, almost reaching to the knee. The waistband was close to the chest. They were baggy and permanently crumpled.

There was also the bright yellow waterproof jacket. Like all of Jonathan’s clothing, it did not fit and in this case, was far too tight and appeared to be on the verge of splitting open. All it needed was for him to turn a deep shade of green during moments of annoyance and he would have provided a passable imitation of The Incredible Hulk, although a slightly scaled-up version.

This particular jacket was worn in all weathers, irrespective of whether there was the remotest prospect of rain. It gave him a somewhat nautical look, albeit a rather scary one. One uncharitable soul suggested that it made him look like the product of an unholy union between Captain Birdseye and a large marine mammal.

While certainly not dim, Jonathan was not blessed with an abundance of common sense. One Friday, he took his leave from the office at lunch time, quite reasonably observing that it was an especially pleasant day and that sunny days in the east of Scotland were comparatively rare opportunities not to be lost. This was all very well, but nobody was quite prepared for the apparition that reappeared in the same office on the following Monday morning.

Having taken the point that hacking away at the top of your own head with a razor is not always the best approach to personal grooming, he had decided to visit a barber to get the job done professionally. Having received a perfect cranial shave, he then spent several hours sitting in a city centre park and exposing his giant – and by now, very smooth – dome to the burning sun (and Jonathan got closer to the sun than most people). The result was inevitable and took those of us of a certain age back to that 1980s Ready Brek advert and the children with their faintly disturbing nuclear glow.

In the confines of an office and kept under strict observation, Jonathan was relatively safe. True, there were several mishaps and those who were privileged to witness his inadvertent head-butting of a low light-bulb and the resultant chaos are unlikely to forget the experience in a hurry. Generally, though, accidents could happen in a controlled environment. It was when he was out and about on his own that more serious danger threatened.

Of course, nobody wants to live in a totalitarian state, but there are certain individuals who should be subject to travel restrictions, purely for their own good, not to mention the safety of others. Thus, when Jonathan announced that he was taking a holiday, there was a sense of foreboding, which would certainly have been shared by the citizens of the places he intended to visit had they been aware of the fact. It was, perhaps, best for their own peace of mind that they knew nothing.

He was not an experienced traveller, though in many ways this was a good thing. Confinement to a small, known area was by far the safest option. New places and new experiences only increased the possibilities of disaster. There had been an ill-fated excursion into Club 18-30 territory, which had ended ignominiously and uncomfortably as the services of a stomach pump were required. The ensuing enforced rest had, at least, spared any further dangers to self or others.

Naturally, work colleagues were very interested to know about his new destinations, if only so they could plan ahead and scrupulously avoid those locations. It transpired that he was doubling the risk by visiting two countries. He would firstly travel to Amsterdam and after that, Hamburg.

One does not require a mind developed in the gutter to realise that these two cities, full of cultural delights as they undoubtedly are, have a reputation for certain activities of a slightly racier nature. It was inevitable that the suggestion be made that this itinerary could, possibly, involve a trip to one or two of the slightly less highbrow spots of these cities.

Jonathan had a propensity for colouring rather quickly when merely faintly embarrassed, even without interventions from the sun’s rays. On this occasion, the transformation was extremely rapid as his face took on that shade of light for which the Reeperbahn is infamous.

Relatively little is known of the Dutch part of the tour, but it is assumed that nothing too spectacular happened, as no war reporters made sudden appearances in Amsterdam on news bulletins and diplomatic relations with the Netherlands remained in place. The German stage, by contrast, has taken on legendary status, with one particular aspect fully deserving of telling and re-telling. It should, in fact, be a compulsory part of travel guide books as an example of how not to do things.

From the start, Jonathan and Germany did not seem to hit it off. There was an inevitability that things would go spectacularly wrong somewhere along the line (quite literally along a line in this case). There had been warnings of things to come. The altercation with a nutritionist in a supermarket was not a good sign. The young woman had simply pointed out that the selection of foods in Jonathan’s basket had not, perhaps, involved the healthiest options available. Jonathan, in turn, had taken this as a personal slight, an infringement of civil liberties and a bad reflection of Germany and the German people as a whole.

It was, though, the train journey that proved to be either the zenith or nadir, depending on which way you want to view it. Even to this day, there are questions, mysteries and puzzles that quite simply cannot be answered. The great minds of science and philosophy could be gathered at a week-long convention and would still be hopelessly bamboozled. Nobel Prize winners would be reduced to shaking their heads and wandering away to contemplate easier questions, such as reversing climate change or curing all known forms of cancer.

In short, our hero decided that there were no more interesting sights to see in Hamburg after a couple of days. Eventually, after searching though myriad leaflets, booklets and maps, he settled upon Hagenbeck Tierpark, the city’s zoological garden. This would not have been everybody’s choice, but some people like these kind of things and we should not be too critical on that score.

Arriving at the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof station, Jonathan found himself rather overwhelmed by the number of platforms and destinations. Stations, of course, have useful objects such as timetable boards showing departures and arrivals, but these did not appear to help his cause. “They were,” he said rather sniffily and with a certain degree of hurt, “all in German.”

Something else that all large railway stations have is information points and staff who are there to help people. Anyone who has visited any large city in Germany will be aware that a goodly proportion of the population speaks English to some degree (and quite frequently seem to speak better English than the monoglot British tourists that ask silly questions). However, since the supermarket incident, Jonathan appears to have preferred to avoid any form of personal interaction.

He didn’t need to purchase a ticket because he had bought one of those passes that allow one to travel on all public transport within the city. The zoo was comfortably within the distance allowed by the pass, which meant that he’d not need to spend any extra money.

Eventually, after much wandering around the station concourse and considerable deliberation, he was satisfied that he had identified the platform and train that were required. Having boarded, he settled back for what would surely be a ten or fifteen minute journey. The train duly departed within a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later, Jonathan began to have doubts for the first time. Should he not have arrived by now? Also, the train had not stopped anywhere and seemed to be travelling pretty quickly. Was he, he wondered, on the right train after all?

A few minutes later, a ticket inspector appeared. Jonathan dutifully showed his Hamburg pass. The woman stared at him for a moment, probably somewhat in awe of the sheer physical size of the giant in front of her eyes, a common occurrence for those encountering him for the first time.

“Where are you travelling to?” she asked in perfectly good English. Jonathan told her. If she was in any way amused, she had the courtesy to hide it very well. “This train,” she said, “is for Berlin and it does not stop.” Jonathan stared back, partly in disbelief and partly in shock. “I am sorry,” the woman said apologetically, “but you will have to buy a ticket to Berlin.”

Of course, a trip and ticket from Hamburg to Berlin necessitated a further trip and ticket back from Berlin to Hamburg. This meant a return ticket and extra cost, as the ticket had been bought on the train rather than at the station before the start of the journey. An hour later, Jonathan stepped off the train deprived not only of a visit to the Hagenbeck Tierpark, but also of 180 euros. For somebody economising by staying at hostels and travelling on budget airlines, this was a rather expensive lesson in the perils of inadequate planning.

There are some very obvious questions that arise from the adventure. Why, for one, would you go to the main railway station for an overground train when the nearest station to Hagenbeck Tierpark is a U-bahn (underground) station of the same name? Why would you board a long and sleek twelve carriage train when you were intending travelling only a few miles? Did it not occur that it was unlikely that such a large and lengthy train would stop at a group of little suburban stations? And, perhaps most intriguingly of all, why would you want to broadcast to all and sundry about your stunning boneheadedness when you got back home?

None of these questions provide easy answers, unless one knows the character of the person involved. People who think logically and rationally simply do not do things like this, and even in the unlikely event that they do, they are not about to announce it to a wider population or, indeed, anybody at all.

One hopelessly lame explanation provided by the man himself fell into the ‘everything was in German’ category of excuses provided earlier. This, not surprisingly, failed to impress anyone a great deal. The train was going to Berlin and did not stop anywhere else. The German for ‘Berlin’ is, to the apparent surprise of only one person in Europe, ‘Berlin’.

Paranoia had also set in, possibly as a result of the incident in the supermarket. There were dark mutterings of a conspiracy, as though the entire German population had worked together surreptitiously to ensure that a bumbling Scottish tourist was kidnapped and robbed by a complicit Deutsche Bahn.

In fairness, it probably didn’t help that some office wag had written ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ in large letters on a board behind Jonathan’s desk. True to form, he had failed to notice it and when he did, duly apportioned all blame on a completely innocent person. The message was quite splendid in its double meaning, as it could easily have been interpreted as ‘I am a doughnut’ in the way that President Kennedy’s famous line was misconstrued. Either way, there was something pleasingly apt about it.

Jonathan continued to present himself as the unwitting victim of an evil superpower. No amount of reasoned argument could persuade him otherwise and he would not accept any culpability. This, he said darkly, would never have happened in Scotland.

Some weeks later, he travelled to Glasgow for a concert. This would entail catching the last train, which leaves Glasgow at half past eleven, to Edinburgh. Everything went smoothly. He saw the end of the concert and reached Queen Street station with plenty of time to spare.

Congratulating himself on his perfect planning, he sat back for the journey. At the back of his mind was the fiasco he’d endured in Germany. This, however, was Scotland, his home territory, and there would be no such mishaps. He felt himself dozing off, but was unconcerned. The train was going no further than Edinburgh, so it really didn’t matter if he fell asleep. Ideally, he wanted to get off at Haymarket, at the city’s West End, but the final stop at Waverley was only at the other end of Princes Street and it would be nearly as easy to get a bus home from there.

As the train stopped at a station, Jonathan woke up. This, he thought, was even better. He had not slept all the way through and could get off at his preferred stop. He jumped from his seat and off the train just before the doors closed behind him. The train departed on the remainder of its journey and Jonathan suddenly realised that the platform on which he was standing was one of only two.

Haymarket station has four platforms. With some trepidation, he slowly raised his drooping eyelids and looked at the station sign in front of him. It read ‘Linlithgow’.

William Handyside – From Edinburgh to St Petersburg

As regular readers of these ramblings will be aware, Duck Holiday periodically takes a look at Scots who have made their name in Eastern Europe. We continue that occasional theme with another Scottish engineer who is better known in Russia than in the land of his birth.

William Handyside was born in Edinburgh in 1793. He was the nephew of another engineer, Charles Baird, who worked extensively in Russia, notably in St Petersburg. On a visit to Scotland in 1810, he invited his nephew, who was then training to be an architect, to join him in Russia.

Handyside quickly realised that engineering rather than architecture, was his true vocation. Within five years, he assisted in the building of the first steam vessel to navigate the Neva River and by 1824, had completed four suspension bridges. In a city of waterways, bridge building must have been a decidedly useful skill.

Despite the rivalry between Britain and Russia in the early decades of the nineteenth century, there was a good deal of co-operation between the two nations and a number of British engineers went to work on projects in Russia. This was a theme touched on by Charles Dickens in Little Dorrit, in which the talented and good-natured engineer Daniel Doyce departs for Russia, apparently with considerable success.

Handyside’s most notable project was St Isaac’s Cathedral. Working with the French Neoclassical architect Auguste de Montferrand, he undertook the construction of much of the stone and metal work of the cathedral. This was no small project; the colonnade alone was composed of no less than forty-eight granite pillars, each fifty-six feet long and eight feet in diameter. Another thirty-six pillars, only slightly smaller, were fitted around the base of the dome. He was also commissioned by the architect to build the huge cast and wrought-iron dome.

St Isaac’s Cathedral

After the completion of the cathedral, Handyside collaborated with de Montferrand once more, this time in the building of what was then the largest granite column in the world, dedicated to the recently-deceased emperor Alexander I. In 1832, the column was elevated in an astonishing twenty-five minutes, in front of the current emperor Nicholas and a vast crowd of military and civilian onlookers. The monument stands in the centre of Palace Square, in front of the Winter Palace.

Alexander Column

Sadly, the exertions of his many building projects took its tool on Handyside’s health and he returned to Scotland in the hope of recuperation and recovery. He never recovered his health and died in his native city of Edinburgh in 1850 at the age of fifty-seven.

Intriguing Buildings: National Library of Kosovo

It is probably fair to say that Pristina is not one of Europe’s most aesthetically pleasing capital cities. This is not, in fairness, the fault of the city or its people, but more of a legacy of the drastic and dangerous times it, and its inhabitants, have lived through over many years.

There is, however, one building that stands out. Whether it stands out in a good way is open to question and indeed, it appears that the National Library of Kosovo is either loved or loathed, at least in an architectural sense.

One thing that surprises many people is that the building is not particularly new. While it has the appearance of something space-age, it was actually started in the 1970s and completed in 1982. The architect was a Croatian, Andrija Mutnjaković, who envisaged a style combining Byzantine and Islamic elements. The result is an extraordinary structure that somehow, despite its futuristic look, manages to display these very styles.

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Can I have my ball back?

It is the domes that stand out. In fact, they do a bit more than merely standing out. They shout at you from a great distance and make sure that you take notice of them. The overall appearance suggests that some giant has acquired a job lot of large footballs and crammed them into the roof of the building.

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Because you can’t have enough domes

There is, however, a practical side to these domes. They help to provide natural lighting to the reading rooms and other work spaces of the library.

Even during the relatively short span of its existence, the library has been through turbulent times. During the many conflicts in the Balkans during the 1990s, the building was occupied by the Serbian army, serving as its headquarters in the region. Indeed, there is still one large and obvious piece of evidence of Serbian occupation in the large and rather unprepossessing form of the Orthodox Church that sits forlornly in the opposite corner of the park in which the library is situated.

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That church

Unsurprisingly, many items were destroyed during the conflict, but the library still contains around two million individual units, including valuable rare books and Albanian manuscripts. There are also maps, photographs and a great many other items of historical and cultural interest. The library is open to the public, though all viewing must be done within the library.

The National Library of Kosovo is one of those buildings that features regularly in lists of the world’s ugliest buildings. A personal view is that while it may not sit alongside some of the outstanding Neo-Classical and Baroque architecture that tends to be ranked among the best, the library is far from ugly. Yes, it is different, but it has a certain character and style that set it apart. Kosovo, through no fault of its own, had few buildings of great interest and we should celebrate, rather than denigrate, this particular edifice.

Great Museums – Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli

Our occasional series of looks at some of the stand-out museums around Europe has thus far been confined to the east of the continent. Clearly, there are many museums and galleries of considerable note in the west and the Archaeological Museum in Naples ranks as one of the best.

This is a building that is well worth a visit in its own right. However, providing one has the time and the schedule, it is an even better place to see taken in conjunction with a trip to Pompeii and/or Herculaneum. Indeed, in the case of the former, there is a lot to see, simply as a result of the way that the two towns were destroyed. Pompeii suffered from volcanic ash and thus many items of interest would be lost if retained in their original setting.

Of course, Naples is a fine city to visit at any time with as much to see and do as one might expect from a large and bustling city. The archaeological museum is just one of many attractions, but will provide interest and entertainment even if you don’t have the opportunity to visit the nearby sites.

Naples is a city that is easily accessed by public transport, even from quite far afield. There is an airport, a ferry terminal and several railway stations. The Duck Holiday team, enjoying the considerable pleasures of the town of Sorrento, made use of all of these transport hubs, arriving in Italy via plane, taking the ferry across to Naples and then the train back to Sorrento.

The museum is centrally located, next to a metro station called – wait for a surprise – Museo. Originally, the building was the home of the royal cavalry and put to use as a riding school before being rebuilt as the main part of Naples university. When the university moved home in 1777, the Real Museo Borbonico took over and the building became public property in 1860.

Initially, the museum held the Farnese Collection of paintings, books and other ancient artefacts, but gradually the artwork and library were relocated and the archaeological museum was the result. While the emphasis is on the finds from Pompeii, Herculaneum and other towns in Campania, there is also an extensive and impressive collection of Egyptian art.

The museum

A highly useful and inventive display, which helps to put many of the exhibits into context, is the model of Pompeii. This is not, as one might imagine, a new addition, but was constructed in various stages between 1861 and 1877. The model depicts an exact representation of every detail found in the ruins and is not only a truly remarkable piece of work, but also an important historical document.

Clearly, different approaches work for different people, but we found that visiting the historical sites first and finishing with a trip to the archaeological museum was a thoroughly satisfactory method. The museum fills in gaps, in a quite literal sense.

The museum does not deal exclusively in treasures recovered from the devastation caused by Mount Vesuvius, although the vast majority of the mosaics on show date from this period. One notable recovery from Pompeii depicts Alexander the Great leading his cavalry against the Persian emperor, Darius III.

Likewise, most of the fine collection of Greco-Roman sculpture consists of recoveries from excavations made in the area surrounding Vesuvius. Most are Roman copies of Greek originals.

An entrance to entrance

One of the most famous houses in Herculaneum was the Villa of the Papyri (Villa dei Papiri), which was an art gallery in its own time. Naturally, therefore, some of the most spectacular artwork was retrieved from this building. A map of the villa shows where each object was found during the excavations of 1750-1761. Most of the sculptures were inspired by Greek figurative art. The villa’s name, incidentally, refers to a library of around 1,700 papyrus scrolls that was found in the villa. These scrolls are not, however, in the archaeological museum, but can be seen in the Biblioteca Nazionale, part of the Palazzo Reale complex in another part of the city.

Another notable collection is of the paintings, sculptures and furnishings from the Temple of Isis in Pompeii. It was discovered in 1764 and has been arranged so that the layout is exactly as it appeared to the archaeologists who unearthed it. The marble head of Isis, the goddess to whom the temple was dedicated, remains intact.

You’re a lyre

The museum also houses a large number of frescoes, most of which originate from the site at Herculaneum, though there is a famous collection from one of the largest houses in Pompeii, popularly known as the House of Julia Felix, including scenes from the forum, one of the few objects that can give us a small glimpse into how life looked in the first century AD.

Positively imperial

Finally, for those who fancy something a little racier, there is the Secret Cabinet. This contains erotic works from Pompeii and Herculaneum. In these more liberated times, nothing seems too scandalous, but it is probably safe to assume that the scenes caused no little stir during the period in which they were discovered.

Cork: rebel city, rebel county by Catherine Walsh

Continuing our look at some of Europe’s more westerly locations, let’s take a trip to Ireland. More specifically, we shall investigate the attractions of the grand old city of Cork. My esteemed comrade, Duck Holiday, has kindly requested that I, as a native Corkonian (you can call me a Corker should you wish) pen a few words on my home city.

One of the many pleasures of Cork is that it is not Dublin. This is not intended to denigrate that metropolis, which has many fine points, but the visitor to the Irish capital can find the place rather large and impersonal. True, Cork may not have the museums and galleries of its counterpart, but it is smaller, more manageable and, in my (admittedly biased) opinion, more friendly. There is no requirement to go searching for buses, trains, trams or any other form of public transport unless you wish to visit outlying towns (although this is also recommended).

Not that Cork is devoid of cultural attractions. Since 1978, there has been an increasingly popular international jazz festival, always held towards the end of October. Cork Opera House, which underwent major renovation in 2003, is a popular venue which stages a wide range of productions and there is a thriving local music scene in both the city and surrounding towns.

Cork opera

Cork Opera House

Where to start in the city? The centre is as good a place as any. Cork’s centre is, essentially, an island, residing between the northern and southern branches of the River Lee. At its heart is Grand Parade, where you will find the tourist information office should you wish to seek more details about what is going on in Cork, both city and county. Just to the north of this establishment is a place not to be missed, the English Market.

Cork Eng market

English Market

One common question is “Why English Market?” The simple answer is that the name originates from a royal charter granted by James I in 1610. The market’s many stalls provide food of pretty much any type you can imagine. Lovers of olives (even serious connoisseurs) will be astounded by the number and variety available. Naturally, most stalls concentrate on local produce and one thing that Cork produces in great quantities is cheese. There are some truly wonderful cheeses – a few personal favourites are Durrus, Gubbeen, Milleens and Ardrahan. There are, however, many others and the market also has plenty of places selling delicious bread to go with this feast.

At the eastern end of the “island” sits the Custom House, a reminder that Cork was, and remains, an important port. At the western end is Fitzgerald Park, a nice place for a leisurely stroll and somewhere perhaps to sit and consume all those goodies you bought at the market. The park is home to the Cork Public Museum, which is, understandably, strong on Republican history, but also has a range of interesting archaeological finds and a history of the substantial local dairy industry. To the north-west of the museum – and, beware – somewhat uphill, across the river, is Cork Gaol. This, like the museum, is a good place to learn about the struggle for Irish independence.

The gaol is situated in the Sunday’s Well area of the city. This part is synonymous with Murphy’s brewery, the predominant beer in and around Cork. The general order of things is Murphy’s, then Beamish and lastly Guinness. Thankfully, not all beer in Cork is mass-produced and a personal preference is towards the independent Franciscan Well brewery, started in 1998. The brewery has its own pub and produced blonde and red ales, wheat beer and the excellent Shandon Stout.

Cork brew

Fraciscan Well pub and brewery

While Cork may not have a vast array of restaurants, the quality is generally high. There are, in particular, some very decent Italian and Indian restaurants and, as with many places in both Ireland and the UK, many pubs have expanded into the business of food. As ever, results are mixed. It’s a case of take your pick. The Duck Holiday team prefer restaurants to be restaurants and pubs to be pubs.

If you want to venture around the county – and if you have time, it’s well worth it – there are reasonably good public transport links. Buses cover most towns, even the smallest, and a rail link will take you the short distance down to Cobh, a little to the south-east of the city. Apart from being a pretty little town, it is also home to the Queenstown Story (the town’s former name), a museum celebrating its marine history. From here, the first transatlantic steamer sailed and the Titanic called here on its ill-starred voyage.

Cobh

Cobh – beware of steep hills

East Cork is sometimes overlooked while the west of the county is acclaimed for its beauty, but this region should not be neglected. The ancient port of Youghal is a delightful spot, full of character and with some splendidly old-fashioned tea rooms along with a host of charming buildings. Whiskey enthusiasts may also fancy a trip to the small town of Midleton, famous for Jameson’s whiskey. East Cork is also renowned as a paradise for birdwatchers, the estuary of the River Lee being an especially good place. Look out for Little Egrets, once birds of the tropics, but now very much at home in the southern parts of Ireland.

Clock tower Youghal

The clock tower at Youghal

The coastal town of Kinsale is another good place to spot birds and is also a town with a rich history. An important strategic point, Kinsale has seen its fair share of battles, landings, departures and there is a superb local museum that tells the town’s story. Further west along the coast lies the little town of Clonakilty, birthplace of the Republican leader Michael Collins and something of a centre for traditional music.

Yet further west, we come to Skibbereen, a busy market town with more than its fair share of pubs. There are some excellent places to buy food here, too, so for those travelling around, it’s a good place to stock up, refuel and enjoy some famous West Cork hospitality. From here, it’s a short distance to the harbour village of Baltimore, from where you can take a ferry to the islands during the summer months.

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Skibbereen

If you keep going west, you’ll eventually get to the town of Bantry, famous for its huge bay which stretches out to the Atlantic Ocean. The bay has some notable history, too, with various attempts to overthrow English rule made by fleets arriving into the harbour. The town’s 1796 French Armada centre tells the story of the famous mission led by Wolfe Tone.

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Bantry Bay (well, part of it)

Visitors to Cork who are left disappointed must be visitors that are very hard to please. The only thing that might bring a tinge of regret is the weather, but you should be prepared to get wet. It rains a lot in Cork. As a local saying goes, “If you can see the Cork and Kerry mountains, it’s going to rain. If you can’t, then it’s raining already.”

Lisbon – gateway to the Atlantic

Let’s move as far as possible – at least in terms of mainland Europe – to the west of the continent. Lisbon, Europe’s most westerly capital city has a rich and varied history; once an outpost of the Roman Empire, then invaded by tribes such as the Alan and Visigoths, conquered by the Moors in the eighth century, subsumed into Spain four centuries later. Portugal gained independence in 1640 and finally became a republic in 1910.

So where to start? Well, anywhere you like, really, but if you want a feel of the history of Lisbon (and indeed, Portugal), try the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos and the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga. The former is something of a shrine to Portuguese national identity and houses the tomb of the legendary navigator Vasco de Gama among many other notable figures.

While the monastery is large and imposing, it looks tiny by comparison with the national art gallery. The latter has a vast and wide-ranging collection of treasures, so if you want to take a comprehensive look at what the museum has to offer, it is wise to set aside several hours. If you are looking for a quicker visit, make sure not to miss the big prize, the extraordinary three-panelled Temptations of St Anthony by Hieronymous Bosch.

Mosteiro dos Jerónimos

Mosteiro dos Jerónimos

Mosteiro dos Jerónimos provides a glimpse of the Manueline architectural style, something even more evident when you see the defensive tower at Belém (Torre de Belém). The style somehow encompasses Moorish, Renaissance and Gothic elements while still managing to look stylish. Originally, the tower stood on an island in the River Tejo, but is now on the land that has been reclaimed from the river. Belém, incidentally, means ‘Bethlehem’ as a chapel, subsequently taken over by the monastery, was dedicated to St Mary of Bethlehem.

Torre de  Belém

Torre de Belém

As with any city, the best way to explore is on foot. Beware, though, that Lisbon is built on hills and some of them are pretty steep. Help is at hand, however; Lisbon is renowned for its trams and there are many little trams and funiculars to take the strain of aching legs. The city also has a metro system that covers most of the central area, though the west of the city is not so well served.

Castelo de Sáo Jorge

Castelo de Sáo Jorge

An easy way to enjoy an aerial view of the city is to use the Elevador de Santa Justa, a Neo-Gothic lift that was designed by one Raoul Mesnier de Ponsard (don’t let anyone kid you that it was by Gustav Eiffel; de Ponsard was, however, one of the Frenchman’s pupils). The harder way is to tramp up to the battlements of the Castelo de Sáo Jorge, which retains the appearance of a Moorish fort although archaeological finds reveal settlements many centuries earlier. There is plenty of history to see and learn here, too, as well as a very good restaurant that provides stunning views if you can find a seat outside.

View from the top of the Elevador de Santa Justa

View from the top of the Elevador de Santa Justa

If you are staying for more than a few days, there are plenty of places for a quick trip. Trains run along the coast to the towns of Estoril and Cascais, departing from Lisbon’s Cais do Sodre, which is by the riverside. While the former has something of the tourist beach resort about it, the latter has greater charms and it is easy enough to visit both by the simple expedient of walking along the esplanade. One small point to note; if it’s a windy day and the tide is coming in, be careful you don’t get a quick drenching.

Cascais

Cascais

Another trip worth taking is to the Unesco World Heritage site of Sintra. This is also a straightforward trip on a train, this time from Rossio station (readers in Britain may not be altogether stunned to learn that train travel is considerably cheaper in Portugal than in the UK). Sintra has myriad palaces and was the summer retreat for the country’s monarchy. As is typical of this part of the world, expect to see an eclectic mix of architecture, with Moorish styles mingling with Baroque and Neo-classical.

Sintra

Sintra

Portugal is, of course, noted for its wine and there is plenty to chose from. It’s easy enough to get decent quality wine without paying a fortune, though here comes another word of caution. Port is a drink for drinking at home, usually on special occasions. While good restaurants may stock port, bars generally do not. If they do, it is likely to be pretty dismal stuff.

All of which brings us to beer. Not much to see here, is the general feeling. There are two main Portuguese beers, Super Bock and Sagres, neither of which is up to much. Rather more palatable, if you can find it, is the Super Bock stout. It is not exactly bursting with flavour, but it is a pleasant enough stout with some nice roasted hints and infinitely preferable to the cold and fizzy lagers.

If you are travelling into Lisbon from the airport, you may well spot the football stadiums of Sporting and Benfica. Both are relatively new, built for the 2004 European Championships. The two grounds are within around a mile of each other and it’s simple enough to work out which is which, Sporting’s colours being green and white, while Benfica are red. Aesthetically, Benfica’s Estádio de Luz wins out. At least there are some soothing curves to soften its appearance while Sporting’s Estádio José Alvalade looks like the biscuit tin of an especially large giant.

Situated as it is, Lisbon and its coast enjoys mild weather throughout the year, although it can get rather wet in the winter months. Summers are, naturally, rather hot, so spring and autumn months can be a good time to visit, with less tourist trade and a pleasant climate. Even better, there should be no lack of things to do for all types from culture addicts to the laziest of lazybones.

A footnote: while it would be stretching a point to suggest that Catherine of Braganza, the queen consort of Charles II, introduced tea-drinking to Britain, she certainly helped to speed its popularity. When she arrived into Portsmouth in 1662, she asked for a cup of tea, a drink that had long been available in Portugal through the country’s trade with the East. Unsurprisingly, nobody was able to fulfil the queen’s request and she was given a cup of ale, a rather more traditional British drink. Equally unsurprisingly, she was not entirely enthused by it and courtiers soon ensured that Catherine was provided with a regular supply of tea shipped from her native land. The taste for tea spread throughout the royal court and the craze spread from there. So on behalf of the tea drinkers of this land, a belated thank you to Catherine of Braganza.

Catherine of Braganza (without tea)

Catherine of Braganza (without tea)

Malmö (in a few hours)

One of the many pleasures of visiting Copenhagen – especially for first-time travellers to the region – is that it provides an easy opportunity of popping across to neighbouring Sweden. By far the easiest journey is to Malmö and the simplest option is to catch the train, which entails a journey of about 35 minutes across the Öresund bridge, a familiar sight to those familiar with the Nordic Noir TV series, The Bridge.

Malmö looking pretty

Malmö looking pretty

Malmö is a relatively small city that is a mixture of the old and new. In the harbour area, particularly, here are lots of new developments and buildings, the strangest of which is the Turning Torso, a bizarre twisting structure that rises to 190 metres. It is located in the Western Harbour, a veritable hotbed of new development.

At the other end of the scale, St Peter’s Church is the oldest building in the city, dating back to the beginning of the 14th century. The church is in Gothic style and while it does not reach the heights of the Torso, its tower is an impressive 105 metres tall.

St Peter's Church

St Peter’s Church

The heart of the Old Town is Stortoget Square, built in the 16th century. The square is surrounded by a host of lovely buildings, including a number of cafes and restaurants, and is home to a fine bronze sculpture of Karl X Gustav, King of Sweden from 1654 to 1660.

Stortoget Square

Stortoget Square

Malmö is famous for its parks and there are three in the city centre; Slottsparken (The Castle Park), Kungsparken (The King´s Park) and Pildammarna (The Willow Ponds). In all, there are sixteen parks within the city boundaries, so there is no reason for anyone to complain of a lack of green space.

The city has a goodly number of museums, but happily for the short-term visitor, many of them can be found in one place, Malmöhus Castle. The castle, built in the 15th century, is the oldest surviving Renaissance castle in Scandinavia. It houses the Malmö Art Museum (Malmö Konstmuseum), Stadsmuseum (City Museum), the Museum of Natural History and the Science and Maritime House Museum

Visitors arriving by train from Copenhagen will stop at Hyllie (pronounced Hoo-yer, for those who want to impress the locals). Here, you will spot the Malmö Arena, a large indoor hall that hosts ice hockey (a big sport in Sweden), handball and athletics, along with other events and exhibitions. It is home to the rather improbably-named Malmö Redhawks ice hockey team.

Malmö Arena

Malmö Arena

Another – and rather better-known – Malmö team is Malmö FF, the only Scandinavian club to reach a European Cup final, losing to Brian Clough’s Nottingham Forest in 1979. The club plays its matches at the Swedbank Stadion, about three kilometres south of the city.

With its waterways, parks and easy-going atmosphere, Malmö is a thoroughly pleasant place for a day-trip, particularly if the weather is sunny and allows the opportunity to take advantage of strolling and sitting around for a while. If it’s not so clement, a good idea is to head for Malmöhus Castle and indulge in some quality museum time.