Green Cwm

Green Cwm

Green Cwm is a tranquil valley in Gower, Swansea, UK. First, drive to Parkmill, a very small community close to the ruins of the castle above the sea. (Be careful; the roads are narrow and winding). The centre of this village is Shepherds Shop/Cafe and the Heritage Centre.
If you park in the Heritage Centre it will cost, and there are few parking spaces in front of the shop. You can also get here on the bus, which stops just outside. It will take about 20 minutes to reach the valley on foot.
By car, drive on past the shop and heritage Centre, just off the main road, to Green Cwm entrance. It is also called Parc le Breos valley (named after William de Breos 3rd, who built the nearby castle in the late Norman period). Continue up this narrow rough road (with potholes) until you reach a car park on your left, near the tall trees.
From here you will see a lush green valley of grass bordered by a huge variety of trees. Immediately on the right is a small Scouts’ Camp. A rough road takes you through this verdant and quiet place.
On your left is Giant’s Grave, a Neolithic tomb built between 3,000 and 1,900 BC, and originally covered by a stone vault and grass. It was excavated by Lord Avebury in 1869. Though now just a low pile, a selection of chambers are visible. These once contained pottery and more than 20 skeletons. If you look closely at the corners of the chambers you will find intricate layers of small stones, used to block crevices.
Opposite this ancient place is an abandoned lime-kiln, similar to others found in Wales. The front is open and, at the back is an opening. Above the kiln, at the back, is a large hole and pit. The limestone was emptied into the pit and then burned to produce lime for agricultural use.
Farther along the road, again on the right and hard to spot, is a large cave. You get to it by skirting to the left and up a dirt pathway. At first you find a lower cave closed off by a metal grill. Carry on to the right and you will climb up to a flat area and Cathole Cave. You will only see for a few yards with the naked eye, but with a torch you will find the cave with reddish walls going back some way. Flint blades from thousands of years ago were found here and it is easy to imagine the cave-dwellers who stayed in such a cold place.
All around there is an abundance of plants and trees and quiet – very unusual in modern days! Carry on up the valley and to your right, almost hidden, is a country cottage…pity about the TV aerial.
To the left of this cottage four rough paths meet, so visitors can stroll in any direction, enjoying the tranquillity, and the illusion of being in a remote land, though in the middle of one of the most visited areas of outstanding beauty in Wales. It is an ideal place for a picnic, and flat enough for the elderly or disabled in wheelchairs. There are almost no seats, though, so take folding chairs. Visitors said they love to come here because it always has a “sense of peace”. It really is tranquil, so why not try it for yourself?

Route:
By car: A4118 from Swansea. About 8 miles from city centre.
By bus: No. 118 from Swansea Quadrant Bus Station. About every two hours.

Follow Jack

Follow Jack!

Jack Nicklaus’ organisation doesn’t invest in dud deals. Any wise investor would do well to note where he is building his golf courses.
A few days ago Jack travelled to Zagreb, Croatia, to meet with the Prime Minister, Dr Ivo Sanader, and other government officials. They agreed on a plan and now Jack is set to begin work on a Jack Nicklaus Signature Golf Course.
Right now Croatia has only three working courses catering for a population of 4.4 million. If they all decided to play on the same day I guess there would be a longish queue!
The decision to build the course in Istria, the north-western region of Croatia, is significant, though not immediately apparent to onlookers. This is because Istria is the only current development area in Croatia, with far-reaching tourist plans for the near future. It stands to reason that a Nicklaus course will attract a large number of golfers to the area, and that is why investors with savvy will sit up and take notice.
His 18 hole course will be a suitable addition to other plans for the area, which will become its own small town. Known as the Porto Mariccio Resort, it will have a luxury hotel and spa, with a wellness centre and conference facility. In addition there will be 460 private units plus a 350 berth marina. It is being built on the coast between the beautiful town of Rovinj and Istria’s capital, Pula. The developer is AB Maris, who specialise in estate investment.
Since 1993 Croatia’s growth rate has been phenomenal; the best in central and eastern Europe. Room nights are up bya staggering 35% since last year alone! Tourist experts predict Croatia to be the fastest growing tourist destination in Europe. The best place to build another hotel! (But note that Istria will not allow high-rise developments).
Nicklaus says “This area is beautiful, and has so much untapped potential…with the combination of the shoreline and the gentle colours of the property, we have a chance to create something special.”
And that’s not all, because Croatia intends to create a total of 22 gold courses in the country. I can assure you that the investment opportunity created by Nicklaus is only the tip of this hot Mediterranean iceberg!


Contacts
www.cybergolf.com
http://www.nicklaus.com/

The Grey City

The Grey City
Dublin in Winter

Hire a car, and the drive into Dublin from the airport is easy, almost one straight road, fairly fast and continuous. Dublin has pedestrian crossings with lights, but I’ve never seen such slow changes, so be prepared! Waiting to cross roads must have taken two days off my visit time. And crossing was itself a dangerous sport, especially if you happen to walk slowly.
There is an excellent link service by train and bus. Both will take you to Heuston Station at the top end of the city. The bus will also take you to other parts from there.
I got to Parkgate Street (just a few yards long) to look for the Ashling Hotel. Could I find it? I drove up and down, repeatedly, for more than an hour. In frustration I decided to try from the other end of the city and took the main road.
As I picked up speed I caught a glimpse of the hotel to my left. “There it is!” I shouted to myself as I quickly swerved left, with other vehicles screeching around me. The hotel was not in Parkgate Street, but in Benburb Street! Was this one of those Irish worderies? The hotel gave the name of the main road closest to its location…suppose that’s fair. A little further down was another Irish worderie: a sign on a gate saying “If you enter, you will be on premises.” Fine, I’ll go with that.
After booking-in I went for a quick walk to find the city centre. The hotel information pack says the centre is “only a 15 minute walk away”. After half an hour I am still trudging on the outskirts. Maybe the information should have said what direction would take me 15 minutes! I was looking for Temple Bar. It was supposed be a single road next to the river that divides Dublin in two. Where was it? I think the leprechauns vanished it. Next day I discovered the map, too, had an Irish worderie, because Temple Bar was hidden behind the riverside, an area rather than a single street! Cold and hungry I crossed back over the river to a small shopping mall and ordered croissants and coffee at a fast-food counter.
I don’t know why, but I expected Dublin to be similar to Britain rather than ‘foreign’. But, it was unlike other places I had been to. I can’t put my finger on it. And, all around me, in the street, hotel and café’s, almost every accent was East European. I heard almost no Irish accents! I must admit this made a difference; I felt cheated…when I go abroad I want to hear local language and accents. (It seems Ireland is now going to stop further immigration from eastern Europe, maybe for this very reason).

The first evening I ate in the bar of the hotel, which was much cheaper than its restaurant. Dublin meals go from about 6 Euros (snacks) to well over 30 Euros. That’s about $7 or £4, to $35 and £20. Most places, however, charged very much more. If nothing else, Dublin can boast a large number of fine restaurants. There are hundreds of eateries, mainly fitted somehow in and around the main (relatively small) tourist areas of Temple Bar, Grafton Street and O’Connell Street (north of the river). At Bewleys, for example, if you are willing to wait for ages, you’ll get a nice meal. It has an interesting fare: a take-away, a sea-food section (with dishes from 25 Euros), and a less expensive section at the back. The same wait was experienced everywhere so I went for very small, reasonably-priced, cafes just off the main streets. It’s worth looking.
Next day, Saturday, I thought of driving through Dublin to find a restaurant ready for the evening. The drive was frenetic and stressful, such was the traffic. Back to the hotel and park! The whole return journey took about an hour, over a distance of no more than about 4 miles. If you visit Dublin and are nervous, don’t attempt to drive in the city. I must say, though, that I coped well enough. (In Ireland they drive on the same side as in the UK, on the left).
A cheap modern tram system runs all around the centre, so try using it. It is safer, cheaper, and more convenient, and you can get on and off anywhere along the route.
I started walking and, this time, followed the riverside road until I reached Halfpenny Bridge (named after the price of the toll to cross it in earlier days). Through the archway and I finally found Temple Bar. It’s only a small area, and the best features are the very colourfully painted pubs. The rest of the city is a uniform drab grey, but that is part of its history.
From there I went to Grafton Street, a tourist shopping street, and then into a rather cute shopping mall (it would fit into a corner of a British one), with ornate ironwork. It takes up the corner bordering Nassau Street. Outside was an old Irish drum player, sitting under a bronze statue of Molly Malone…not very good, but at least he was Irish!

I came out of the mall and into a riot. Republicans rampaged from O’Connell Street, up through Temple Bar and into Nassau Street. Trying to get away I turned up Nassau Street, to be stopped by a wall of riot Gardi (police). It took three hours to return to my hotel.
Next day, Sunday, I took the car out of storage and drove north of the city, up the coast. I drove through small towns with almost nothing of tourist interest, and found myself in the port town of Drogheda. It was very cold and nothing seemed to grab me enough to get out of the warm car, so I drove on into the countryside, to the west, which was a bit of a mistake.
My impression of that part of Ireland is almost nil. The countryside was flat with nothing of note, for many miles. Eventually, I turned to head back for Dublin, disappointed. As I approached Dublin from the west, just outside the city, were two small towns of interest – but it was now late in the day, so I went to the hotel.
Monday, I went to find the Guinness Storehouse, a five-storey museum. The Guinness brewery dominates the south bank of the approach into Dublin. It was only when I started walking around its perimeter that I realised the true size of the whole site. It is massive. (To give just an idea – at one time a single yard alone contained a quarter of a million beer barrels).
The museum is big and noisy, but in a nice way. It costs 14 Euros entrance for adults, giving a great social and economic history of Dublin. The architect did a wonderful job on the interior. On the very top of the building is a round glass-fronted room with a bar. Hand over your ‘ticket’ and you get a free pint of Guinness (or soft drink). The ‘ticket’ is a small glass paperweight, with a genuine drop of Guinness injected into its body – and you take it home with you. There is a view of Dublin, which, it must be said, is not spectacular. You can also see the same view from Chief O’Neil’s Chimney Tower on the other side of the river (costs 4 Euro, and it is worth chatting to the elevator operator, who can give you inside information on the city).
Back again to the hotel, covered in snow. On the way back out again, the sky is clear. I went back to Temple Bar, this time for an unhurried and non-riotous visit.
Tuesday, I looked for the ‘Viking Experience’, but guess what? I couldn’t find it anywhere. Back to the Tourist Information Centre, and the leaflet definitely called it the ‘Viking Experience’. Following the city-map, I found the street it was supposedly on and – another Irish worderie; it didn’t exist!
Oh, okay, I said, I’ll go to the ‘Dublinia’ museum instead, which was the other side of the cathedral. Over I went and… the ‘Viking Experience’ is not a separate attraction on a separate site – it is inside the Dublinia museum! And on a totally different street! Silly me!
It cost 6 Euro to get in and again I was disappointed, because the museum did not live up to expectations. Thinking I would see a mock-up Viking village, what I got was a standard museum presentation mainly on posters. Overall, I don’t rate it, but the information about early Dublin and its Viking origins was quite interesting. That last evening I gathered my cents and ate in the hotel restaurant, which cost about 30 Euro.
My total impression of Dublin? I always wanted to go there, but the actuality was not as good as the hype. It is more busy than ‘lively’ and just about every piece of literature made much of pubs and clubs. So, if you want a bit more than drunken revelry, there is little else. This is a bit hard on Dublin. I imagine that on a sunny day, and with better prior investigation, I would find real Irish offerings. Next time I will try west and south west of the city.
The traffic can be horrendous, and there is very little to see apart from in the very centre – O’Connell Street, Temple Bar and Grafton Street. Loved the architecture of the colourful pubs, though, which contrast sharply with the more usual greyness of the buildings, many of which are monolithic.
I think the way to approach Dublin, especially if you are travelling a long way to get there, is to try and discover the history, from Viking times onward. It was, after all, a bleak and dreary place until recently. I think Dublin is more a city of the future for tourists, because it has a long way to go to keep a visitor there for more than about three days. Do your own research and don’t rely on romanticised tourist write-ups! I am willing to give it another try, but not just yet.

Getting there:
By Air: http://www.ryanair.com/
http://www.easyjet.com/
Other airlines also operate, but can be expensive. Costs depend on time of year and whether or not there are any ‘big dates’ such as international rugby matches.
Ferries: There are a number of ferries. Irish Ferries charge from 59 Euros one way for car and driver. Like the airlines, the earlier you book the cheaper it should be.
Stena Line go from Holyhead, north Wales. There is also P&O, and a ferry to Cork from Swansea, west Wales. Special offers go from £85 for car, driver and up to five passengers. Other ferries sail from Fishguard to Rosslare.
There are fast ferries, too. For timings go to http://www.celticlinks.co.uk/ for a route planner.
Remember, if you choose a ferry to Cork or Rosslare, you will have to drive north to Dublin…162 miles from Rosslare, and 256 miles from Cork. So, you’ll cut your UK travelling, but just add it on again at the other end!

Diamonds Aren't Forever

Diamonds Aren’t Forever!

The English Riviera can get quite hot in summer. In 2006 it got even hotter – under the collar.
Torbay is a genteel place, with a high concentration of places to stay: hotels, guesthouses, B&B’s. Owners usually try to better their best in an effort to woo customers, taking real pride in giving quality for money. They now fear the latest changes in the hotel rating system will lose trade and even drive some owners into liquidation. Mostly it all comes down to a definition of the word ‘hotel’.
According to irate Torbay hoteliers, a relatively short while ago the British Tourist Board (‘Visit Britain’) made changes to the system, and said there would be no more. Now, they have altered the system again, and this has infuriated the trade.
The new system is now “done and dusted” says Simon Lever, a Torquay guesthouse owner, “but the problems rumble on.” Those I interviewed certainly appear to be affected by what they call a ‘blunder’ by the Visit Britain ‘focus’ group responsible for the changes.

Simon & Dianne Lever
Simon Lever, an active member of the Torbay Hospitality Association, is not impressed by the changes. With a fervour prompted by frustration, he says “Most people in the UK know the star and diamond system. The real potential for confusion will be on the internet, where the meaning of ‘guest accommodation’ may not be that obvious. It will be up to the former diamond-rated business such as ours to ensure there is no confusion.” However, he says he is in no doubt that Visit Britain has introduced unnecessary complications.
He and his wife, Dianne, own and run the Daylesford Hotel in Torquay. Currently it has four diamonds with a silver award, so it is a guest-house. When the new system was brought in, he was denied continued use of the word ‘hotel’ but has since won a battle to keep the word in the title and description. Now he has to make very sure he describes his hotel as ‘guest accommodation’ in his advertising and website. But, he claims many who now use the word ‘hotel’ are very worried, because it is vital in internet searches. “The removal of the word ‘hotel’ on a website would all but kill-off internet presence for smaller businesses.”
Simon, who is also a consultant, said he is not personally worried because he will cope – but he cannot say the same for others in the trade. “Many think they will ‘go under’, unable to deal with constant demands and changes.” He says he has no option but to use the new system: “If our name doesn’t appear in the literature put out by Visit Britain, I won’t be able to compete for business.” Meanwhile everyone is waiting for the changes to take full effect from next year, with varying degrees of trepidation.
Under the new system there will be no diamonds; all premises will have star ratings and the number of stars will appear on external signage. Under the stars will be an indication of whether the premises is a hotel, or guest-house/B&B, etc. If not an hotel (as defined by the system), the words ‘guest accommodation’ will be found.
“This,” says Simon, “will likely cause confusion, because there is no quick visual discriminator. If a potential customer is driving down the road and sees a two-star and a four-star premises, he will ignore the two star, even though one might be an hotel and the other a guesthouse.” The customer will not take time to read what is underneath the stars, “so he might end up in a four-star guest-house and not a four-star hotel.”
Despite his anger at the way he thinks the system has been ‘foisted’ on the trade, he says owners must now stoically get on with it – but “it will take time to sort it all out in customers’ minds.” Others I interviewed have the same opinion, and say the ‘powers that be’ have not consulted the trade properly or given themselves enough lead-in time to educate the public, either in the UK or abroad. Simon insists: “On the internet, this could have disastrous consequences for many small businesses.”
When asked what will happen when making internet bookings, he says customers must get used to looking at the ‘small print’ on websites, to make sure they get what they are looking for – an hotel, or a guest house/B&B, etc. “Customers associate stars with big hotels; so owners must be sure their descriptions are very clear. Otherwise it is possible for a customer to book into what they perceive to be a large ‘hotel’, only to be very angry on arrival to find they are in a small guest-house.”
Overall, despite his distrust of the process of change used by Visit Britain, Simon and his wife are upbeat and look forward to the challenge. During my viewing of the Daylesford, I could see why it has four diamonds and a silver award, right down to ultra-clean skirting boards and tiny details. Years of proud ownership are very apparent and I had the impression they would go further than required to provide customers with a memorable experience, even if they had no stars at all.

Bernard & Rosemary Sellick
Like others I spoke to, Bernard and Rosemary are a hard-working team, passionate about their two-star, gold-award hotel, which they have owned for the past 19 years. They actually demolished bedrooms so customers could enjoy more leisure space!
His desire for excellence makes Bernard very animated. He talked to me with a degree of urgency. After all these years, he said, he was anxious about the future.
“We have always been interested in building quality; our ideas are the same as Visit Britain’s. We changed from diamonds to stars four years ago. We are one of only six two-star hotels in the South West with a Visit Britain Gold Award, and the only two-star Gold Award hotel in Torquay and South Devon.”
Bernard and Rosemary are very proud of their hotel and anyone who sees the place must admit the gold award is well-earned. Visitors would be forgiven for thinking the luxury décor and environment are more suited to a four-star premises than a two-star!
With a concerned expression, Bernard says “Now everything has changed. The new system will give rise to a misconception, as potential customers think from the signage alone that a four-star guesthouse is better than a two-star hotel, though the criteria for assessing them are different!”
He believes his objections are well-founded. “We feel two-star hotels have been totally squeezed in the revamp.” Bernard is also concerned that small or new hotels and guesthouses will have to bear extra costs, such as for new stationery, advertising, website changes, etc. He said Visit Britain was not concerned by this.
“One owner,” he says, “has the word ‘hotel’ prominently fixed to the front of the building…is he now expected to pay a large amount to deface his building, just to get rid of the word ‘hotel’?”
With a two-star sign but a four-star look, the Berburry Hotel would not disappoint anyone who stays there. But, as Bernard says, with only nine rooms it is not practical or cost-justifiable to attempt to meet the additional criteria to increase his stars. “I thought about going back to being a guesthouse, but why should I, after spending years building up a two-star hotel? For me, it would be a retrograde step!”
When asked if he had taken the quality aspect of his premises well beyond what is expected of a two-star hotel, he thinks he has – but that it was a “matter of personal satisfaction” to give the very best to his customers. “The confusion about the rating system is heightened in resort towns, where hundreds of premises are often crammed very close together, making a visual comparison very difficult for customers. Under the new system this will be even worse.”
Bernard echoes Simon Lever and says successful internet placing is vital: “The word ‘hotel’ is the key, because it is the biggest trigger for search engines. If the word does not appear in the search, customers will never get to hear about you. We will see a watering-down of descriptions by owners, and this will lead to confusion. Hotels must be judged alongside other hotels, not mixed with guesthouses and B&B’s.”
He adds that he has been spending constantly on increasing quality, but has now gone as far as he can…you can only do so much in a limited space. “It’s a nice building and a lovely home, in a prime position, so we’d like to continue as we are.”
There is a distinct impression of owners being jittery about the changes and this came through strongly during interviews. There is a fear that the business an owner has built up for years will somehow be threatened by a scheme designed to be of benefit. Those I talked with are enthusiastic about a standardisation of quality indicators – but only if the changes are made logically and with consultation. Their anxiety is rooted not in the need for change, but in what they see as a ‘done deal’ without any real consultation or listening to legitimate fears.
As one owner said, “It was a bureaucratic decision made by those who don’t understand the real needs of the industry.” The comment was not aimed at Visit Britain ‘front-staff’ but at the ‘faceless few’ who made the decisions.

Teresa and Giovanni Butto
Owners of the five-diamond Kingston House Hotel in Torquay, Teresa and Giovanni, hope to retire soon, so they are not novices to the hospitality game. Giovanni is a top-flight chef and his evening meals are mouth-watering even when read off a menu! Their previous venture in the Midlands saw them serving master-chef food to people like Sir Cliff Richard, Dudley Moore, June Whitfield, and the comedian/presenter Don Maclean, who is still a very close friend. As Teresa said, “They wouldn’t come back time and again if the quality wasn’t there.”
The same devotion to quality is evident in the hotel, where you get what you expect in a five-diamond premises with evening meal, serving the only genuine Italian cuisine in Torquay.
Teresa is annoyed because “England is making these changes to be in line with Wales and Scotland. Why can’t they keep in line with us? It’s disgraceful – there’s been no consultation. First we heard about the new system was after it had been introduced!”
Repeating what other owners told me, she mused, “How are foreign speakers going to know the difference between a five-star hotel and a five-star guesthouse?”
With fervour, Teresa angrily says “Visit Britain should have held an intensive campaign, with TV, radio and other media, to educate people when they changed to diamonds. But they didn’t! They produced leaflets – but I only got them by pestering. I am still sending them out to all prospective clients, because Visit Britain have not yet made me aware they have produced marketing material for the new system. Why didn’t Visit Britain send supplies of the leaflets to all hotels and guesthouses previously? Let’s hope they won’t introduce the new star system with no marketing in place!”
Like the other owners I spoke to, Teresa is proud to say “I’m very fond of doing it right and giving my best to people, and our menu is better than you can get in some larger hotels with four or more stars.”
Customers who go to the Kingston want to avoid large hotels, which they believe are less interested in them as people. “You can get just as high a service with diamonds as you can get with stars.” Like another owner I met, Teresa is convinced that “The ‘big boys’ (a reference to large hotel chains and big five star hotels) led the changes so that they came out in their favour. None of us are happy, because there was no genuine consultation. Even the local tourism group changed the famed Torbay palm-tree emblem without consultation. It is still a palm-tree, but not the same one. Why can’t anyone listen to us – we are in the business, after all.”
Owners see the changes as good in theory but not in how they have been brought about. One even said the changes were “A country destroying its own tourist infrastructure.” They all agreed that certain individual officers of the tourism bodies listened to complaints, the most prominent of which is that the system was designed and put into place without taking heed of what people in the trade had to say.

Carol Smith
The epitome of a sharp-minded career woman, in a smart black business suit and alert, sparkling eyes, Carol Smith was both fluent and very open in her complaints about the new star system.
Managing Director of the imposing three-star Belgrave Hotel, easily visible on Torquay seafront in its own grounds, with an extremely spacious car-parking area, Carol was the most vocal of those I met.
She began by saying “Visit Britain restandardised about seven years ago and said ‘That’s it’…now they have done it all over again!” With an acute and astute business sense, Carol goes much farther in her ideas on standardisation than does Visit Britain. “Why fool about with just a UK system, when we ought to be standardising globally? Now that I could understand!”
With clarity, she spoke of the pressures already put on the trade by new legislation, such as Health and Safety, and Employment, which have the effect of reducing the owner to a pawn in the distasteful world of growing litigation. “And to top it all, we now have this ludicrous new system.”
“Any new system should take into account the international scene, with its ever-growing, changing, demography.” Carol spoke of the “expectations of UK travellers, who visit abroad and see high levels of luxury. They come home and expect the same standards in their own country. Therefore, standardisation should not just be UK-wide, it should be at least Europe-wide, if not worldwide.”
Which is why she thinks the current changes are a waste of time; “Visit Britain will probably not only change its own name again, but will likely change the system… yet again. We must take the bull by the horns!” She meant that if changes must be made, at least let them be made with foreign competition in mind.
“I’ve been in this business for 20 years and more and more demands are made on us. I don’t mind a new rating system so long as it makes sense and keeps up with international expectations. Those who go abroad have come to expect that ‘wow’ factor – that’s why I have installed flat-screen TV’s, for example, in most of our rooms. People’s expectations are increasing exponentially!”
“As it is now, we are falling behind our foreign competition, and harassed by our own government, who burden us rather than help. Insurances have gone up 500% since 9/11, and litigation, thanks to foolish government inactivity, is becoming pandemic. And record-keeping is now phenomenal. This all removes resources from hotels. Those who do not cooperate with government bodies are being treated like criminals.”
Carol believes that after creating such a fuss, the new system will be handed over to the AA, and questions how this is possible…”Will the Monopoly Commission step in?” she quipped with a wry smile. “The rising costs of simply being in the hotel business will cause many smaller hotels to fail. And the new rating system won’t help.”
She believes that when the English Tourist Board changed its name to Visit Britain, it effectively changed its brand image. “Now, what solid business deliberately changes its well-known, successful, brand image to take on another image no-one is aware of? It is now trying to change the ‘brand image’ of hotels by using a new system. It is suicidal!”
Leaning forward to emphasise the importance of her statement, she adds: “Visit Britain can afford to make errors, because they are not accountable. If I make an error in my business I will go down – but government bodies don’t care. They can make bad decisions and no-one will make them pay for it. All of this affects customers’ perceptions. In my opinion, Visit Britain is wasting public money in this exercise, and it makes me very angry indeed!”

Torquay was memorable for the passion shown by hoteliers and guesthouse owners. Their anxiety and anger were palpable. In many ways the interviews were exhausting, as is any situation where emotions are made plain. Can so many owners be wrong in their assessment?
The star system is already being used in Wales, so transition will be comparatively easy in the Principality, where introduction of the new system will be staggered; the AA started using it in January 2006, whereas the Welsh Tourist body will begin in October 2007. Apparently, the WTB have been advising businesses in writing of the coming changes since January 2006. The WTB said “Their quality level and also any criteria issues would need to be resolved, to retain their existing WTB rating.” That is, they will have to spend to reach the new standards.
Derrick Ellershaw, of the huge Blackpool group of hoteliers, agrees that small-premises’ owners have experienced a “lot of unease and disappointment”. He adds: “There are conflicting reports about criteria changes in the ‘small hotel’ category” but believes the tourist authorities are going to try to resolve the problems. Though his hotel association is the biggest in Europe, he says that even he “hears about (changes) through the grapevine.”
He thinks “As a consequence…most operators will do nothing for a good while, and wait and see what happens, which is a real shame, especially here in Blackpool, where many operators have already addressed the quality issues.”
Generally, Derek is as upbeat as his Torbay colleagues, but he cannot ignore the fact that many owners are very anxious about the future. There appears to be a consensus that all owners in the hospitality field welcome standardisation. Those premises I have visited display an extraordinary desire to offer customers even higher quality than Visit Britain demands, so why the widespread anxiety and anger?
Other areas of the new system have created doubts. For example, why motels can now be listed as ‘budget hotels’, when they usually have no night desk coverage, no meals and lack many criteria that now define ‘hotel’. Added to this is a proposed new stealth tax that will have an impact on the ability of owners to compete, a 10% ‘bed tax’ on top of the existing 17.5% VAT, making the UK the most taxed holiday destination in Europe!
Visit Britain was asked if they would care to answer some of the issues raised, as was the Minister for Tourism, but there has been no comment.
There is an axiom in all areas of activity - keep lines of communication open! Overwhelmingly, owners are telling me this has not happened, and that Visit Britain’s ‘focus group’ acted unilaterally, without proper consultation. Thus, they say they have been sidelined. And Carol Smith predicts yet another change, “when Britain realises it is part of Europe, and alters the system once more.”
Honest communication is always a sound, fundamental policy in business. And true communication is always two-way. That’s the message coming from the trade, and they want to know “Will government bodies listen?” Any new governmentally-inspired system will work ‘after a fashion’, but why not get it to work seamlessly and without anxiety?
The fears expressed by so many prompt onlookers to ask if small businesses will struggle or go under whilst the system is being inaugurated (as happened with many small nursing homes when new systems were put in place). And, even when up and running, will the system run smoothly and be an asset? If not, say some hoteliers, it could help to destroy the infrastructure of British tourism.

Contacts:
Daylesford Hotel: +44 (0) 1803 294435 www.daylesfordhotel.com
Berburry Hotel: +44 (0) 01803 297494 www.berburryhotel.co.uk
Kingston House Hotel: +44 (0) 1803 212760 www.kingstonhousehotel.co.uk
Belgrave Hotel: +44 (0) 01803 296666 www.belgrave-hotel.co.uk
Visit England (British Tourism site): +44 (0) 20 8846 9000 www.visitbritain.com

Marlborough Deliciously English

Marlborough: Deliciously English

Marlborough is a lovely small town in Wiltshire, just south of Swindon. Georgian buildings decorate either side of the High Street. With hundreds of listed buildings, the town is far more ancient than its Georgian facade implies.
Every building is different and most are constructed of old red brick instead of the usual yellow Cotswold stone, topped by old brown tiles. Shops, alleyways and cottages mingle quite happily in a rustic setting.
Like many British rural towns, Marlborough has collected modern buildings around itself. This, however, is not a problem for visitors, who are simply charmed by its busy but very English character. It is this ethos of "Englishness" that attracts me.

The High Street (said to be the widest in Britain) now allows for parking down its middle (there is also plenty of parking behind the High Street). This is because an entire row of houses was burned to the ground about five years ago. But even these were not part of ancient Marlborough, which was a major stopping point on the stage-coach route between London and Bath. Then, the extra-wide road was accessed by troops, carriages and cattle.
Before that the town grew from a small village, having witnessed the presence of Neolithic man, Bronze-age tribes and Iron-age families, Roman Legions, and every other era right up to the present day. It is, then, one of the oldest habitation sites in Europe, as the surrounding countryside with its ancient burial mounds prove.
Marlborough is the legendary home of Merlin, King Arthur's magician. The very name of the town comes from "Merle Barrow" or Merlin's Tomb...he is said to be buried in the grounds of the elite Marlborough College, which was built on the site of a much earlier royal castle, close to the town centre.
With such a varied and evocative past, Marlborough is an exciting, interesting place to be. Step onto the High Street, down the winding narrow streets, or venture carefully up an even narrower alleyway, and "ancient" fills the air! The river behind High Street is full of swans, ducks and other birds, making this a wonderful tourism location with scope for countless happy memories. And if you enjoy music, there is even an international jazz festival every July.
Marlborough is what you expect an old rural English town to be, and does not disappoint. It is not an invention, where local planners have devised mock traditions or pseudo-old buildings to draw tourists who know no better. This is the real thing - quintessential England, hearkening back to much gentler, nicer times.
Because it is genuine, the town affects its people, who are themselves rustic and gentle in the best of senses. Live in modern brashness and you become brash...live in old England and you become truly English.
That's why you must take an English break in Polly's Tea Rooms. Crammed with pictures and genuine features, and offering traditional fare, you will know you have just had tea just as they did before the Second World War. The other food venues have offerings just as nice, but Polly's has gone out of its way to remain part of old England. If you want to take home food that can be traced back to its origin, and with a real English background, you can buy from a farm shop...game turkeys, geese, ducks; plus partridge, mallard, pheasant, hare and venison.
And, of course, there are more than enough traditional, old pubs, for those pub lunches and slow drinks during a warm summer afternoon (or a winter day is just as good!). The larger places, like The Ivy House Hotel, offer traditional British meals, too. Added to the old architecture, that's a bonus.
Carrying on the traditional theme, locally produced cheeses, hand-made preserves, and wines are all available in another typically British shop, Mackintosh. There are many old shops to choose from - just wander around and take delight in every one, knowing they are not the usual run-of-the-mill places selling tired old mass-produced stuff.
The Merchant's House on the High Street was erected in the time of Cromwell, following a serious fire in what was then a small village. Get there on a Saturday and wonder at its ancient heritage and interior. Equally old churches stand like sentinels at each end of the High Street.

Day of the Almost Hero

Day of the (Almost) Hero
The true story of Flight 4565

EasyJet Flight 4565 from Berlin, leaving at 2.30pm, 10th November, 2005, began as any other...
As favoured Class A passengers, my wife and I swaggered aboard the great iron bird ready to choose our seats. Wanting extra leg-room we sat next to the emergency doors over the wing.
The usual gesticulations and chat were effortlessly, performed by the bubbly cabin crew and we soared away into the bright blue yonder, unaware of the soon-to-unfold drama in the skies. When the stewardess asked me to read the emergency instructions for opening the wing doors, I quipped “Shall I practice?” Pretending not to have heard the joke a million times before, she smiled and bantered with me, probably hoping I would just shut up.
About 20 minutes into the flight, over northern Germany, a curious white panel suddenly lit up next to my head. On it was the ominous legend: ‘Slide Armed’. Taking that to mean something awkward, I couldn’t help wondering if the door was properly shut, or if it was about to be ripped open by the pressure, sucking everyone out to their doom.
The senior stewardess walked calmly to the flight cabin to speak to the pilot, who was, I think, in the staff sauna at the time.
As the crew decided who would jump out first, I planned what to do when the door ripped off. It was now up to me to save the whole ‘plane, at least until it hit the ground at devastating total-annihilation speed.
I decided that when the call came and the door flew away to clobber a productive Bavarian cow below, I would push my legs hard against the seat in front, or maybe stick them to the side, so that they jammed tight. No doubt this would break my legs, but what is pain to a hero? At the same time I would press backward into the seat I was sitting on. Then I would keep my back to the opening, making sure my body prevented anyone from being sucked out to their inevitable and probably yucky demise.
Obviously, some would be dragged toward the opening, but they would be stopped by my selfless sacrifice. I just hoped I would only get the lighter ones.
Of course, because of the freezing atmosphere outside, my whole back would be racked with agonising frost-bite, requiring an operation to remove one half of me when I got back home. But, that’s the price I had to pay.
This was all worked out by the time the warning siren started to blast in my ear. The higher the ‘plane climbed, the louder was the siren. In the end the pilot had to get out of the sauna and decided to go back to Berlin.
I sat stoically, the unsung almost-hero, waiting to do his bit.
Back in Berlin, the engineers got on and nonchalantly pushed their hands around the edges of the door to see if anything was stuck, and fiddled with a few technical pieces.
One engineer found that when he pressed the inside plastic edging into place the light went off. Fixed! He told the pilot who, by this time, had transferred into a fluffy white bath towel, hair still wet but manly.
We were off again into the now darker blue yonder. But, life is full of surprises.
Back in my seat, I started to read my book, only to glimpse, out of the corner of my right eye. Yes, the white light telling me the slide was armed (again)! I imagined that if the sign could easily be lit and the slide could be armed without provocation, then the door could just as easily get ripped open and send us all to oblivion. (Well, we didn’t seem destined to reach the UK anyway).
The stewardess went to see the pilot, who was, by this time (I think), in his shorts under the fast-tan machine.

The crew were called to the front for an emergency panic, but decided to stay calm for the sake of all those non-heroes who thought it might be best to scream and run amok just because of imminent death. What made matters worse was the crew had not yet brought along the wagons with snacks, gifts and drinks!
Eventually, the pilot announced we were to return, for the second time, to Berlin. Surely a first in aviation history - twice in one day, on the same ‘plane!
My wife and I were advised to sit at the back, ‘just in case’, so I told the cabin crew my brave plan to save everyone. I was clapped on the back and the lady sitting opposite wanted to buy me a drink for my proposed bravery. They recognised my qualities.
We got back to Berlin again and had to leave the aircraft. We’d get another ‘plane, we were told.
We all trooped off in chaotic formation and returned to Departures 65 to await our fate. Then along came another EasyJet ‘plane (or the same one after being scrubbed), to be refuelled and restocked with food. Meanwhile, we all had to identify our own baggage on the tarmac, which was then put onto the new (or scrubbed) ‘plane. It was now dark and raining.
Eventually, we were allowed back on the 'plane and sat in the same seat, next to the emergency wing doors. When the time for bravery came, I wanted to be the one with half my body removed from its frostbite, sure in the knowledge that I had saved the deserving, the not so deserving, and maybe some who would never be on my Christmas list.
As a reward for taking part in the record-breaking return of the same ‘plane not just once, but twice, we all had a free drink. I requested lobster and champagne, but was gracefully refused.
As the single (small) drink flowed, everyone was happy, apart from the crew, who now had to deliver drinks they would not normally have given. But, the whole ‘plane was in a great mood and we arrived back home in one piece.
I never had the chance to prove myself as a genuine, one-of-a-kind hero, and I never had to lose half my body to frostbite. But, the EasyJet crew all proved their mettle, their homeliness and their professionalism.
As we all left the aircraft, I smiled the smile of an unsung hero and said to the senior stewardess, in a kind of heroic drawl (which I thought was attractive), “Y’know, tonight we became kinda family.”
She clasped me around the waist, and I returned the gesture, as we briefly kissed each other’s cheeks, whimsically. The pilot came out and added a quip of his own, but no kiss. We waved to each other as I left my near-moment of fame.
That night, the crew and I were magnificent, and are now bound together as one family, by a single moment in history, when lives (almost) hung in the balance on board Flight 4565.

Becoming a Seasoned Traveller

Becoming a Seasoned Traveller

British tourists have no problem with the lingo in foreign lands – if the locals don’t understand your English you just say it again, but louder. The trouble is, the foreigners don’t understand this rule of linguistics, though it has been a simple method used for centuries.
My very first trip abroad was with my wife, brother, and his wife, in the early 1970’s. We did one of those swift three-day things to Paris. On that trip I became a seasoned traveller. Follow my example to the letter and you, too, will join the elité.

The Laughing Policeman
We reached Gare du Nord railway station without hassle and, because of my utter lack of foreign language skills, I was chosen to ask a policeman for directions.
Half a dozen of them stood outside the railway police station and the one I spoke to was quite jolly and amiable. He had one of those pencil-thin moustaches, so he had to be real. Showing him the address, I asked in perfect English, “Can you tell me where this is, please?”  
He didn’t understand me in his perfect French, so I repeated my query, this time more slowly, again in English. With many smiles, arm movements, and conferring with colleagues, he promptly launched into a kind of machine-gun French.
I listened intently – at least that was the look on my face – for about ten whole minutes and kept nodding or saying ‘Aha’. He pulled me toward a wall map, waving his hands over it. Maybe he wasn’t so sure I was so sure, which I wasn’t.
Finally, with arms akimbo, he seemed to indicate (?) he’d finished. His face beamed, so I said ‘merci’ and strolled away again. I was none the wiser, but advised everyone to ‘go this way’ after spying a metro sign on the wall. They hadn’t seen it, though!

The Scornful Street-Trader
When we reached the metro station nearest our hotel, we got out into a cobbled square flanked by tall old houses and shops, full of character.
I made the mistake of trying to ask a local the way again. This time I showed my crumpled bit of paper to a kindly, elderly, man with a fruit barrow. He listened and called over to his friend selling newspapers on the other side of the square. The last bit was “Ha, ha…Anglaise!” as he pointed to his head a few times.
He said something else as well, which probably meant, “Lovely chap – just can’t speak our language.” Then he did something with his fingers, but not sure what.
Suitcase-laden, bedraggled and hungry, we walked up a side street, stopping outside what seemed to be a closed butcher’s shop. Maybe we would come across the hotel by accident. Or maybe there was another maybe.
Reluctantly, I approached a pedestrian, waiting for another insult or smirk. He was a lovely gent in a beret.  With broken English and many arm and hand movements, I think he said we were actually very close. I discovered I had the same penchant for not understanding foreign arm movements as I did for not understanding speech. So we ambled this way and that, pretending to be ever so interested in shuttered shop windows.
Then, by magic, the street name appeared. The hotel was like buildings you see in the films, up an alleyway. We were on the very top floor, reached by a long, winding staircase, with old wrought-iron handrails and no carpet. The walls and stairs were painted in ancient gloss, lit by a timer-bulb that went out after a minute or so.
We were at the very end of the top floor, with one toilet in the passage-way. It had a window overlooking a cast-iron stench pipe. Our rooms were original, small and very old, with a tiny, dangerously loose balcony. We saw buildings with crumbling tall chimneys and patched, odd-angled slate roofs, to match the crumbling walls. As the sun went down the sight was wonderful. Well, the tops of the roofs were. And everything inside our rooms remained rickety, even the stale air.

The Foot-Bath That Wasn’t
I decided to wash and change and saw two rough cubicles with curtains. One contained a ten-thousand year old ceramic basin. In the other, I washed my feet in the peculiar bowl with a spout sticking up. My more-travelled brother later told me it was a bidet, gently explaining how it worked and what it did. I preferred my own version.
Later, we strolled down quaint narrow streets, enjoying the old-world charm of the buildings, trying to avoid twisting our ankles on the cobbles in the dim light.
Then, torrential rain made it all so, well, wet! We reached a street with cafés as the black sky suddenly chucked its entire contents over us, and a bit more meant for Austria. We were soaked in seconds! There was nothing for it – we dived into a corner café and found ourselves in one of those local places only locals eat in.
The signs were French, the talk was French, and the good-natured owner ushered us toward a table in French. We thanked him in English and asked for a menu. To my amazement that was in French, too. Don’t the French realise the British don’t talk foreign? Speaking loudly just wouldn’t work here! The locals gazed impassively at us and chuckled in French.

Cold White Soup
I looked at the menu, completely mystified. Finally, with the confidence of a British tourist, I pointed to a menu line… Yes, I’d have a bowl of that steaming-hot soup and crusty bread. A few French minutes later I was mystified by the extra-large bowl of cold white stuff and bowl of sugar, handed to us by our genial host.
It was kind of smooth with soft bits. It wasn’t ice-cream, so what was it? It was sour! My brother, slightly more international than I because he’d been to Spain for a week, offered an explanation – it was natural yoghurt. I’d never seen yoghurt before. Put some sugar on it, he advised.  So that’s what it was for! I left the ordering of coffee to my brother and didn’t ask for anything else to eat.
The rest of the holiday consisted of walking very fast everywhere (because we couldn’t decipher the metro signs) until our feet nearly fell off. But we covered a vast area and many sites. We loved it. Just a pity the French speak French.

Red Faced – Twice!
Then came the top of the Eiffel Tower, where I needed to spend a penny. Actually, it turned out to be five centimes, paid to a middle-aged lady wearing a pinafore, who sat knitting something yellow just inside what I thought was the men’s toilet. My brother chuckled and stayed outside. With horror I saw a raised platform behind a glass panel. There were urinals open to full view of the passive-knitter. She didn’t take a blind bit of notice of my blushing face, and I was too desperate to leave again!
Then, as I did what gentlemen do, I glanced nervously behind me to make sure she wasn’t looking my way. And almost died when I saw women walking past into the cubicles to our rear! My brother stood in the doorway enjoying the look on my face, and the girls fell about laughing uncontrollably.
Rough justice intervened, though; my wife and sister-in-law suffered the fate of all laughing females…they had to pay their centimes and rush to the cubicles, trying not to notice the men! Serves ‘em right!
It didn’t end there…later that same day, alongside the river, I again had to use a toilet (I think it was the fizzy drink) but none was found. Finally, as I began to feel more than uncomfortable, my brother pointed to a strange looking edifice in the middle of the pavement. It was a round iron-work fence-thing without a roof and something like a naughty word scrawled in chalk on the outside. ‘Go in there’ he said confidently. What for? I asked naively. It’s a toilet, he said. I was confused. Impatiently, he told me to just go in and trust him.
I found an opening (no door) and walked in. As if in a maze, I walked timidly around the narrow spiral walkway and reached a central short row of urinals and that was that, or so I thought. My relief, and water stream, stopped abruptly when I heard the click-click of women’s high heels outside, passing. Only on my way out again did I realise the iron ‘fence’ was full of large holes and anyone passing could see inside!
That day I almost died twice of sheer embarrassment, but my jolly relatives enjoyed every minute of it. But at least I was now an assured, seasoned traveller.

Two-Day Berlin

Two-Day Berlin
on Foot


The Relexa hotel, just inside what was once the western sector of Berlin, offers two contrasting views from our window. To the right, dominating the skyline, is the Fernsehturm. A grey concrete stalk topped by a huge ball, it was built by the communists as a show of monolithic strength…and maybe to spy on what was going on below, in west Berlin. To the left, impressive even from a distance, is one of the three modern office towers gracing the Potsdamer Platz, a recently-built business centre.

My wife has always wanted to see the Brandenburg Gate – she didn’t know why – so getting to this symbol of German militaristic power was a must.
To get to it, we will pass through the Potsdamer Platz. Turning left from our hotel on Anhalter Strasse (seen on pre-war maps of Berlin) then right, we are on Stresemannstrasse, a direct route to the centre of Berlin, Mitte.

Berlin Wall
Before we get to the ‘three towers’ of the Platz, we take the first turning right, down Neiderkirchner Strasse. Within minutes we reach the remaining stretch of the infamous, authentic, Berlin Wall still left standing.
Now fenced off to stop modern graffiti, the wall is a poignant reminder of the Cold War, even for younger visitors, whose only knowledge of the East-West stand-off comes from films and books.
Before we reach the Wall, we stand between two magnificent buildings, one each side of the road, both occupied by Berlin governmental departments. One has lovely statues on the roof-line, and the other has a wonderful painted frieze around the top. If there are two things you’ll notice about Berlin buildings, they are statues and colour!
The two buildings were separated abruptly by the stark reinforced-concrete Wall, until it started to come down in 1989. Two examples of classic historic architecture isolated by a common divide. The occupants could see each other from their respective windows, but had no contact.

The Wall itself still has its old cobbled street on one side, along its length. On the other side of the Wall is an open-air mini-museum, aptly called the ‘Museum of Terror’, with the story of the Wall on laminated posters.
Photos of Eastern Berliners, shot whilst trying to escape to the other side of their own city, look out from the posters, a grim reminder of a war that was not just ‘cold’ but deadly to those who ignored Communist might.
Now, the steel rods giving the Wall its strength are starting to spring out with rust, and large holes are starting to break down the expanse of concrete. No doubt the infamous Wall will simply crumble to nothing, but until then it is right to display what an evil regime can do when it is given free reign.

Checkpoint Charlie
Continuing down the cobbled old road, we walk to the next junction with Wilhelmstrasse (which also goes to the centre of Berlin), and continue down Zimmerstrasse. At its corner, we find the object of many spy films, still intact – Checkpoint Charlie. The famous signs are still there: ‘You are now entering the American Sector…’
The small checkpoint shelter, active from 1960 to 1990, is fronted by sandbags and guarded by pretend soldiers with pretend guns, but the symbol remains just as grimly powerful as its previous reality.
Photos of the ‘old days’ show a ‘no man’s land’, with American soldiers on one side and Communist soldiers on the other, separated mainly by a road, Friedrichstrasse, with twists and turns to prevent speeding vehicles from reaching either side in an attack or escape. Devoid of the buildings that now occupy the same land, you cannot help having an uncomfortable feeling.
Opposite the checkpoint is a shop selling East German military and polizei caps and uniforms at a very reasonable price! What was once a sight bringing dread to the soul are now great souvenirs. I wonder, though, how many caps and uniforms are genuine – you find them on sale from barrows and shops everywhere.

Potsdamer Platz
We leave this now bustling area and retrace our steps – only because we are on foot and want to follow the route we’ve mapped out in our minds. Back on Stresemannstrasse we continue toward Potsdamer Platz and the traffic becomes noticeably voluminous.
There is something important about Berlin – it is a BIG place. Not so much in scale, as in a sense of largesse of spirit and ‘presence’. The roads are mainly very wide, and the modern buildings are big in style, reflecting the people in general as well as the chic of its women. Urban housing and buildings tend to be modern and colourful, to their credit.
Our hotel bore the signs of a financial success to be found everywhere in Berlin – suit after suit, with and without lap-tops and briefcases, whether male or female. And many now use cheap airlines such as EasyJet. The suits and lap-tops seem to increase exponentially as we reach Potsdamer Platz.
Here we have our first experience of the peculiar crossing system. Though the green light is on, traffic can still turn. It has to stop before making contact with human bodies, but it takes us a while to get used to! As do the cycle tracks all around Berlin, serving as speedways for cyclists intent on mowing down anyone in their path.
After negotiating the busy Leipziger Strasse, we stop to look up, and are amazed by the breathtaking modern architecture of the three huge Potsdamer business towers, each one very different, and together looking more like cartoon buildings than real places! The angles and materials combine to offer a surreal image to the giants, though they are truly worth the gaze of mere mortals.
As if to complete the surrealism, at the foot of the offices are colourful craft and food tents, where the simple German hot dog competes against the multi-million Euro deals going on in the faceless offices above.

In Memorium
Rounding the bend we continue up the same road, which becomes the Eberstrasse once it leaves the Platz. On the right, we come across what appear to be odd blocks of dark stone, hundreds of them, covering a large area of land. The blocks are of different sizes and height, and the ground they occupy undulates, making it all look like a silent city.
At first we are puzzled, but soon discover the area to be a monument to the murdered Jews of Europe. Fittingly, it stands on top of what was once Hitler’s bunker. Tourists slowly walk the solemn ‘streets’ between row upon row of blocks, without a word, but my wife declines. A single wreath of flowers marks one block, a tribute to every Jew who died.
The bustling Eberstrasse running alongside the monument and the green trees lifts the sombreness of the site, as if to say ‘life goes on’, despite the horrors the blocks depict.
Getting closer to the Brandenburg Gate (shown as ‘Brandenburger Tor’ on maps and signs) we only just see its crowning glory of gleaming horses through the trees and overhead cranes (working for the American Embassy).
Then, the Gate itself, sideways on. As I read the blurb on a poster, a weird old lady with a walking stick saunters up to me and, like an Arab selling dirty postcards in old Cairo, she flashes the front page of a magazine and asks me something in German. The cover appears to have a picture of a man and woman in a compromising pose. I said – ‘Britischer’. She said ‘oh’. Then she saunters off again. I am unsure what exactly she is doing, but it seems furtive and possibly illegal!
Brandenburg Gate
Through the imposing arches, and we stand in front of one of the best-known triumphal edifices in the world. At the other end of the square, building work is going on, surrounded by a huge-scale photograph reproduced on plastic sheeting, mimicking the Brandenburg Gate. Wittily, the entrance to the site is cut into the middle arch of the photographic Gate.
Berlin seems to go in for this kind of expensive statement around its big buildings. Right at the other end of the six lane ‘Strasse des 17. June’) leading from the Gate to the district of Charlottenburg, is another big building. That, too, is covered with artwork on plastic sheeting, this time funded by Samsung. Very expensive – I suppose meant to show-off the wealth of Berlin.

Next comes the Reichstag, just a minute down the road after turning right from the Gate, toward the river Spree. I was not very impressed as we entered the parking area, thinking it was the front. It now houses the German parliament, the Deutscher Bundestag.
Opposite is a government building used by polizei. The parking area is filled with the most expensive looking police cars I have ever seen, all top model Mercedes and BMWs, some with darkened back windows.
The Wall had once cut right across the back of the Reichstag, down to the river, where we meet another sobering sight. In itself not much, but enough…three white crosses fixed to a railing, in memory of three ordinary East Germans shot dead trying to swim to freedom at the bend of the river. Beyond is a modern building, one of many that now infuse Berlin with new life.
With wassertaxis chugging gently up and down the river; it is hard to imagine guards shooting people in the water, not so long ago. The day is brilliantly clear, with clear blue skies and a nip in the air. And the sheer largesse of Berlin takes over. It is not until we walk around the side of the Reichstag we realise the ‘front’ is actually the back!

The Reichstag
Suddenly, we are hit by a memory flash-back. There is the huge expanse we have seen in countless old films and documentaries showing Hitler whipping up a storm with his troops.
Not that it looks like that any more. It is just an endless stretch of grass. But, what it used to be springs automatically and immediately to mind. It is very strange to stand in the middle of that former parade ground, hearing in our heads the thousands of voices shouting ‘Seig Heil’ repeatedly and fervently, drowning out all reason.
The ground in front of the Reichstag is truly huge – enough to send a shiver down the spine as thousands of rows of soldiers come vividly to mind, all driven to war by the voice of one man.
In the centre of the Reichstag is a big glass dome, open to the public. Trouble is, the public happens to form a very long queue, so we skip that one, hoping to get in tomorrow, Tuesday.
Off to the right, across the road, is a Chinese protest. A young woman tied to a tree…another sitting cross-legged inside a cage. Behind them are two rows of people all standing with arms high in the air. They are guarded by a Chinese man in communist Army uniform, carrying a large stick. They want something or other stopped, but it is hard to see what.
Round the other side again, we go back to the Brandenburg Gate. So far we have taken just over 3 hours and our bellies tell us it is time for a snack…we don’t buy lunches when we pay for half-board!

One-Course Snack
Off the square, in a corner, is an expensive-looking German restaurant. We don’t opt for the Starbucks at the end of the square. Peering into the window, we can see locals just having a coffee and a sandwich, so we hope for the best and enter the hallowed premises. The entrance door is covered inside by a long black curtain. Most of the customers seem to be monied intellectuals or business types, so we look at the menu with trepidation.
The waitress speaks in German. Again I say ‘Britischer’, trying to shrug amiably, and she replies in German. In English, I ask for a snack. She responds in German and hands me a different menu…which is also in German. I say we want something light, trying to describe ‘light’ with my hands. Obviously, it doesn’t work…and even I don’t know what I’m doing!
She goes away and speaks to a colleague, who asks me in broken-English “You like a croissant with bacon and cheese?” Defeated, I ask for two, with a latte each. I’d written down some key phrases before leaving the UK – but the sheet is still stuffed at the bottom of a bag at the hotel!
Then comes paying with a ten Euro note, to which came “Oh”. Don’t really know what the fuss was about, but we escaped with dignity intact. To be fair, we noticed food is relatively cheap in Berlin.
Back in the Brandenburg square, to the other end, and out past the plastic art-work to the main thoroughfare going away from the Gate, Unter den Linden. This is another wide, tree-lined road with several lanes, which again emphasises the ‘largesse’ to be found all over Berlin. It allows the grand statues and buildings space to breathe and show themselves off.
We discover what’s behind the plastic sheeting – a big development bringing a new underground rail station right to the centre of Berlin.
As I look in a shop window, I am approached by a youngish, dowdy man. He, too, furtively flashed the same magazine cover shown to me by the old woman, muttering something in German. ‘Britischer’ I replied. Off he went.

Museum Square
Museums are everywhere in this city, like fruit…here a museum devoted to the Stasi, the secret police; there a single-roomed classical building devoted to peace and one single statue on its own; there a museum to the Jews; and beyond another bend in the river Spree, a big museum to contemporary art, on the left, flanked by an ornate church. Oddly enough, they are in ‘Museum Square’. Many sites are free.
Over the statue-lined bridge, beyond the church, is the tall tower I saw from the hotel window, the Fernsehturm (television tower, with restaurant). It can be seen from almost anywhere in Berlin, a statement of power and presence in anybody’s language.
Incongruously pasted to the skyline and forming an odd companion to the old church in front of me, it looks more at home with the hideous communist-built building opposite the church, clad in copper coloured glass and graffiti. Unlike the beautiful modern architecture created by Western Berlin, it stands out like a sore thumb and is destined to be pulled-down soon, to the protests of local artists who use it as a very successful exhibition space.

We thought of going up to the top of the Fernsehturm, which is on Panoramastrasse…but, where’s the entrance? No idea! We’ll try again, next time.
I notice an odd thing about Berlin – there is very little accommodation for English (I say ‘English’ because it is a global language). Go to, say, Spain, Malta, or many other European tourist areas, and you will find multi-lingual signs, usually including English. But not in Berlin. German seems to role all of its words into one long one, making an attempt at working-out meanings almost impossible for the uninitiated. This is strange, as American and British troops were stationed there for decades. Or, maybe that’s why there’s very little evidence of English!
On our way back to the Mitte, there is a young eastern-European woman. She places a card (printed professionally!) around the neck of a baby in a push-chair. Then, she kneels on the pavement with hands in an attitude of prayer, shuts her eyes, and just waits there, open box in front of her.
In the UK we come across many fake beggars, so I look at this women…her clothing and shoes are new and expensive. She is slim but appears to be in good health with fresh, healthy skin. The baby is content, sleeping in an expensive buggy. So, we walk on. A good beggar can make many times what I earn a week, in just one day.

Wow Cars!
So, we leave the tall tower unconquered and, after my wife buys hair-spray (hoping it isn’t hair colourant), we stroll back up the Unter den Linden, this time on the left side facing the Gate.

We come across a very impressive building devoted to car sales, with several makes under one roof. When we come to the Bentley section, we are blown away by a gleaming new Bugatti, a beast of a sports road car, drawing us into the showroom to take a ‘photo. Then, we notice a lower floor in the centre of the building, containing antiques…and I mean the genuine article, not the stuff you find in small towns!
We go down to see what’s on offer. Salesmen float around in dickie-bows and pin-striped suits. In a corner is a German TV crew taking big close-ups of very small jewellery, costing hundreds of thousands.
Buyers, well-heeled and rich enough not to be phased by wealth or its trappings, stroll and stop at desks dotted about the place. One of the salesmen stops and offers coffee or wine, and the job of offer and acceptance begins, with a minimum of four figures to start.
I make sure my rucksack doesn’t brush against anything priceless, because anything priceless is well beyond my price! But, the dickie-bows are not taking any notice of a tourist with a handful of Euros in his pocket.
Back to the Gate, and it is nearly 4 pm, starting to get dark because it’s mid-November. Instead of returning to the hotel via the Potsdamer Platz, we feel adventurous and instead saunter down the parallel Wilhelmstrasse. Much quieter, it is just as broad, with plenty of space and trees. Evidence of rebuilding is everywhere, but it is relatively unobtrusive.
I take delight in back streets, and love to see where people live. I don’t care how dusty or broken down a place is, because it is all real, the place where the locals are. But, the centre of Berlin is anything but broken or dusty.
On the way we cross again at the end of the remaining stretch of Wall, and it seems to take a shorter time to return to the hotel than it took to leave it. Though it is not even five in the afternoon, we want to get back for a rest before the sun goes down. If it was summer, we would still be out until dusk. We settle for a time of relaxation, watching German TV.

Day Two
When I visit a new place I usually take in the location of the main attractions on the first day. Then, armed with this information, I go back again to check out the details, and to make visits to special sites I had already ear-marked. This time, however, I decide to go west of the city centre itself.
So, today, Tuesday, we start out with high spirits, on another bright blue day, slightly warmer. Turning left this time at the Potsdamer Platz we soon come to the edge of the massive Tiergarten green area, covered in grass and trees (on a map, it is a large green area to the left of the Gate). Originally a royal hunting estate, it became a park in the 18th century.
In the UK, few dare to stroll alone through a large tree filled area, but the numbers of people, alone, in pairs, and in groups, was reassuring; it is obvious locals have no anxieties. An added bonus is that this path is marked on early 20th century maps, probably as a bridle way.
The trees have that glittering, satisfying mixture of autumn browns and reds. Dozens of cyclists speed past, some singing to themselves. Groundsmen clear fallen leaves and do repairs. Young jogging females stop to flirt with them. It’s a happy place, and we enjoy the walk immensely.

The Golden Angel
Finally, we reach the west-directed Strasse des 17. June (It used to be ‘Charlottenburger Chausse’ until renamed in honour of an uprising by East Berliners on June 17th., 1953). Looking east down its length we can just see the Brandenberg Gate in the distance.
To our left, we see a gigantic gold statue on top of a monolithic, extremely tall, plinth. This is the Seigessaule, a triumphal column commemorating victories in the Prusso-Danish war, 1864. It used to stand in front of the Reichstag, but was moved by the Nazi government in 1938.
The enormous golden angel (‘Goldelse’) was added later, after victories against Austria (1866) and France (1871).
The enormity of this column cannot really be appreciated until you get very close. All around is a multi-lane roadway, so it is reached by going down specially built tunnels. The people at the base of the plinth look like ants. For a great view of the park, go to the top.
Not far away, continuing westward on the right-hand curve of the massive circular, is a bronze group of Kaiser Willhelm and angelic friends. Opposite the triumphal column, it is now tucked away behind trees. It’s a pity because it is quite magnificent.

Toward Charlottenburg
On we plod, determined to reach Charlottenburg. With one eye on happy but maniacal cyclists, we carry on, feet aching, but enjoying the lovely blue skies and slightly warm temperature. The left pedal of one bike, carrying three male teenagers, falls off. They collapse in a laughing heap. One boy replaces the pedal loosely, and off they go at 2 kilometres an hour, zig-zagging with their combined weight!
On our walks, we take in everything, from folk jogging, to dogs with their masters, and workmen going about their daily tasks. Everything tells us something about the places we visit.
At last, we reach the outskirts of Charlottenburg and a quick look at the map tells us we still have a long way to go. This side of the meandering River Spree, we walk past the biggest Mercedes showroom we have ever seen, filled with every model you could think of, displaying prices proving the British are being fooled big time by UK distributors!
Feet almost falling off, and in need of something in our bellies, we reach the university and sit down. The shopping area remains elusive, so I make an executive decision to give up! We’ll return to the centre instead.
The westward Strasse des 17. June ends at a big roundabout outside the university, so we join it again, this time to return east toward the Brandenburg Gate. Thousands of students file out, many eating baguettes or other goodies, deliberately goading us with full stomachs. We didn’t see eating places on the way up, so we don’t expect to find any on the way back!

Food Oasis
Then, like an oasis in the desert of extra-wide martial roadways, we catch a glimpse of a bakery tucked away underneath the railway station just past the university. We find all sorts of food, and try guessing what they are. The cold drinks from the cooling cabinet were obvious.
Trying my old trick yet again, I shrug, look helpless, and say: “Britischer”. Also shrugging, the shop assistant replied in broken English: “I don’t care”, so I point to what we think looks reasonably edible, hoping it’s not anything disgusting. I indicate how many with two fingers (Churchill type, so as not to be misunderstood). We have two of those…and… two of those.
Not far away is the western end of the Tiergarten and we find a park bench. By this time our feet have been worn away to stumps and bending to sit hurts my back. But we have…’something’ and…’something’, to eat!

Romantic Meal
As we start to devour the first ‘something’, along comes a man in dungarees, pushing a leaf blower. It blows leaves everywhere, though I think they are meant to be guided expertly into a single corner. Many of them land on us, swirling in mid-air, as we sit resolutely munching away at our rations. Who cares – it’s almost romantic!
The first ‘something’ turns out to be a kind of puffy pastry apple thingy, and the other ‘something’ is a ring of ‘stuff’ filled with currants, cinnamon and sticky bits. Washed down with cold mineral water, it’s fit for a king.
And so we carry on, feet not yet grown back onto their stumps, enjoying the lovely day and people-watching. Some look ‘typically’ German (to us, anyway). Some, visitors, carry maps. Some are joggers and others cyclists. One cyclist, an older man, has a huge pile of rucksacks and other bags by a fence, with an upside down bike, which he is trying to mend. As we pass he lets out an angry and exasperated yell. We ignore it and walk on.
Reached the Siegessaule (quicker this time) we catch a glimpse of suicidal Japanese tourists trying to dodge the extremely busy four lane traffic. I like statues, too, but not enough to get squashed over.
On we travel, brave little explorers with aching feet, until we reach the top end of the open space in front of the Reichstag. We note, and obey, the graphic signs telling us there is a ban on sun bathing, lighting fires, and having barbeques under trees. We reach the Chinese protesters, who are still there. By this time it is starting to get darker, so we again return to the hotel, via Wilhelmstrasse, to lay on the bed, absolutely tired and legs falling off.

Real Berlin
The third night of our visit, we have the restaurant to ourselves, and the same waiter greets us. Without a doubt, he is the best waiter I have ever come across, in any country.
Özgür Üzmen, to us, represents new Berlin. Old Berlin is forever stamped on the minds of the world as a divided city, with a wall of death hacking its way through the lives of its people. But new Berlin seems to be captured in this one waiter, a personable young man, whose wife remains at home to look after their lively two year old baby, Ilyada.
I ask Özgűr what he thinks as he serves countless foreigners. He tells me that Berlin is a city becoming wealthy, and its people are warm and welcoming, wanting to live in peace.
Özgur seems to typify this newness. Knowledgeable about wine and food, flamboyant and welcoming, chatty and very friendly, he only wishes to make us feel at home…which he does, admirably. Thus it is, that we find in Özgür Özmen, the true heart of Berlin. And know what adds to the whole trip? We only spent just under 15 Euros between us…no kidding!