A Measure of True Friendship & a Busman's Holiday

After I'd left Yorkshire the plan was to meet up with a couple of friends - one in Rugby and the other in Clacton.

Unfortunately, due to a mix up in text messages and voice mail I missed the meet up in Rugby and so headed to Clacton to see Steve.  Steve is a dead ringer for Tony Hadley but likes to consider himself looking more like Steven Seagal, although I can't imagine why anyone would want to emulate that moron.  

I arrived at Steve's fairly late and although I haven't seen him for going on 7 years it was like picking up where we left off.  We had a few drinks in his house and chatted and reminisced about our working time together on the railway and the many, many good times and great laughs we had.  As the booze took hold Steve showed me his second most prized possession, which for legal reasons it's probably best if I don't mention what it is and the fact he wanted to demonstrate its operation.  Despite being a drunk as I was, I knew it would be rather reckless to do so and I managed to convince him otherwise.  In the end, he settled for letting off a flare in his back garden that went off with such a bang I went to bed with my ears still ringing.

The following morning and feeling somewhat rough from the previous night and with my ears still ringing we had breakfast and then Steve showed me his most prized possession, his Porsche 996.  He needed to take his work car to the garage so asked if I could follow him in the Porsche to pick him up.  Would I?  Now that really is a measure of true friendship: you don't see a mate for going on 7 years and the day he turns up you let him drive your Porsche.  Fair play to him.

Off we went, with me pootleling along like a little old lady through the town.  We dropped his car off then, still allowing me to drive, we went for a wee burn up on the bypass.  It was tremendous.  For me it's not the top end speed but how it gets there.  The acceleration.  It's having the power on tap and the seemingly endless surge when you put your foot down.  It makes for a very intoxicating mix and I WANT ONE (hence the need to build up my insurance NCB)!  When we arrived back at Steve's house there was a terrible smell of a burning clutch.  I was mortified.  Steve seemed to take it in good humour but he hasn't let me forget about it since.  Okay, so I'm not used to driving a manual.  The clutch pedal was awfully light.  And in an odd position.  My balance was affected by the flare and the ringing in my ears.  I was hungover. Or perhaps I'm just a crap driver?

After leaving Steve I headed back to my place and had the joy sitting in a massive traffic jam at the Dartford crossing.

I still had many other people I wanted to meet up with but first there were chores and urgent tasks that needed doing around the house.  Some obvious, others not so obvious.  

The drains had been blocked, with solidified fat as it turned out, and was forming a stream past the back door every time someone had a shower or did the washing up.  I'd cleaned them the week before but in the process a chunk fat had been washed down the drain and blocked it further down in the "dirty" section so out came the drain rods.  That's a job I love doing on my holiday.

Attempts to Purge the Moles!

The outside tap was leaking and water was leaching into the brickwork causing the exterior paint to peel off and become unsightly.  Without a doubt, the leak had occurred when the tap had frozen in the winter so it had been leaking for quite some time and probably explained the infestation of slugs and snails in the kitchen.  In order to do a proper repair I would have had to chop out the rendering to get to the offending connection and that seemed like too much of a task to undertake, which had the potential to turn into a major project so I just turned the tap off at the isolating valve.

Leaky Tap

I needed to create some space in the garage so I could park my car in there, which meant hiring a skip and filling it up with rubbish left by the tenants.  This included a huge amount of carpet off cuts (I tried burning most of it - probably not the most environmentally friendly thing to do), some of which were nothing to do with the carpet that had been fitted in the house but clearly the carpet fitter had taken advantage of the opportunity to off-load all his rubbish on someone else.  I'd made an attempt to tidy the overgrown garden somewhat and so there was also a fair amount of garden waste too.  The two rolls of insulation I'd stored in the shed had become a favourite nesting spot for the rats that infested the place when the previous tenants decided (unbeknown to me) to keep chickens.  

Barely Room for the Car

Following this, I had to treat the wood of the garage/workshop with preservative.  I'd managed to do half of it the last time I was home but nothing more had been done in the time since and it was in urgent need of completing, especially with the winter looming.  This meant doing a fair amount of clearing of the trees and bushes around the building so it wasn't a 5 minute job.  Whilst doing so, I noticed that some of the tree branches had damaged the the roof sheets so that led to another job, and the need to temporarily repair the roof.  It would be wonderful to just pay someone to do all this for me but it just doesn't seem to happen.  In addition, the garage/workshop doors hadn't been painted and were in dire need for repainting.  But stripping the paint is hugely time consuming (despite buying a propane stripper masquerading as a WWII flame thrower) so I managed only to do one small door.

Door Painting

The wood of the conservatory hadn't been treated since it was built 8 years ago and was in desperate need for a fresh coating (it was entirely stripped off at the eaves), again before the winter set in, so that was another task to undertake.

Al-Fresco Breakfast Between Tasks

Not to mention the perpetually leaking taps in the kitchen, the leaking toilet pipe and the ongoing battle with the moles destroying the lawn (with considerable assistance from the dog digging holes in it) as well as a myriad of other jobs.  If people think that living in an old house in the country is easy living then they should stay living in the towns.  Especially if you have a large garden, the work involved is huge (unless you take joy in sitting in a tangle of brambles and lawn looking like the Somme).

What with these jobs and various other bits and pieces my holiday just slipped through my fingers and I seemed to end up doing more work than if I'd stayed at work.  On leaving and going back to the Philippines I was feeling somewhat frustrated that I hadn't been able to meet up with everyone I had wanted to meet up with, that I hadn't had the time to properly enjoy my photography and review and process the photos I wanted to digitise and I hadn't completely done all that I thought was necessary to the house.  I did manage a day trip to Beachy Head and Rye but it was small compensation.

Beachy Head - One of My Favourite Locations

So I left the UK with a dark cloud hanging over me and ongoing concerns over the maintenance of the house.

Once back in the reclined, wide seat of the aeroplane, with a glass of champagne in my hand I closed my eyes and just tried to think of the wonderful friends I have: those who I did meet with and who were incredibly generous and wonderfully hospitable and those I was unfortunate not to be able to meet and who were so understanding.  

Next time.

A Holiday in England - The Smoke, Up North, VCs & Raptors

After leaving Scilly it was a dash back to my place in Kent to do some laundry before jumping back in the car and driving up to London to visit my sister, Carol.

Cornish Wind Farm

Driving through London made me realise how much easier it is to drive just about everywhere else in the world.  The omnipresent speed cameras, traffic light cameras, yellow box cameras, congestion zone cameras, bus lane cameras, speed humps, pot holes, grid locked traffic, nightmare parking, warped one-way systems, ridiculously short timed traffic lights and totally illogical speed limits positively ensure, no, absolutely guarantee that there is not one iota of motoring joy to be had.

However, once safely ensconced at my sister's place with my car in the basement car park, safe from any marauding traffic wardens, I was happy.  I've said it before (but I'm going to say it again) but London really does have the best pubs in the whole wide world.  Fact.  Without doubt.  And so my brief time in London was spent in several pubs, eating pub grub (as well as fish and chips from the local chippy) and catching up with my sis.

Sharky & Me in the Boozer

For the next leg of my journey to North Yorkshire I left London early hours of the morning in order to avoid the nightmare daytime traffic.  Driving at night can be tough (I had to pull over a couple of times to snatch five minutes of zzzzzz) but the rewards of the open and largely empty roads is a blessing that definitely makes it worthwhile.

I had plenty of time so took the scenic route, coming off the A1 early, up Sutton Bank at sunrise, across to Helmsley and on to Kirkbymoorside.  At dawn I was driving across the magnificent North York Moors, on what is without doubt one of the best driving roads I've ever had the pleasure to drive over (particularly when I was using a Honda CBR 600 and in a Porsche 968).  Even the sedateness of the Volvo couldn't distract from the twists, turns, brows, dips, cambers and the ever present risk of crashing into a wayward sheep wandering across the road. En-route I passed the Lion Inn on Blakey Ridge, one of the best pubs in the whole of England - it has to be because it's so remote it would've shut down years ago if it wasn't - and had it been open for breakfast I would have definitely stopped for a full-English.

North York Moors

But it wasn't so I went on to Guisborough and feeling that it was rather too early to be calling at my mate Tom's house I went looking for a cafe for an unhealthy fry-up, but to no avail.  So I took a slow drive to Tom's after wandering around the town and buying a newspaper.  Fortunately he was up and about, as was his better half, Judith.  They had business to attend to so I welcomed the idea of forty winks to catch up on my sleep whilst they went about their errands and tasks.  Later that day we went for a walk around the foot of the moors (being away from England really does awaken your senses to just how beautiful the English countryside is) and then into the local boozer for beer and grub.

North Yorkshire Countryside

That afternoon Judith asked me what I wanted to do whilst I was in the area?  I've been travelling up to Yorkshire and the immediate surrounding area for well over 20 years (I've also known Tom for around 25 years, since the Falklands) and so the imagination was wearing a bit thin.  However, the day before my sister Carol had given me a CD containing research she had commissioned on my grandmother's family tree (my mother's side) and knowing that my grandmother was from "up north" I mentioned this.  We fetched the CD out of the car and, to Tom's yawns, Judith and I started reading up.  I knew that my grandmother's eldest brother had been awarded the Victoria Cross in WWI and following a bit of research on the internet we learnt that there was a statue of him in South Shields town hall, so a plan was hatched to go and visit and pay homage following day.

I'd always imagined that South Shields was a fair trek from Guisborough but it was actually much closer than I imagined and we were there in no time at all.

South Shields Town Hall - Now a Glorified Traffic Island

South Shields town hall is an imposing building close to the town centre.  It's a town hall as town halls used to be: full of grandeur and bristling with a sense of civic pride.  The present day main reception, which in its day would have been a side entrance, was a disappointing typical council office, with matching bland décor, chirping switch boards and a take-a-number-wait-your-turn arrangement.  I was convinced we'd never get to see my great uncle's statue, thinking that in modern Britain it would have been labelled "most irregular" or "not council policy" or being too much or a security risk or fill in a form for your request and we'll process it in 21 days.  We approached the reception desk and by way of explanation made our request.  Surprise of surprises we were accommodated and process with an astonishing speed.  It would seem that people still hold a very high regard in matters relating to those that have been awarded the VC.  We were issued with temporary passes and went from the soulless reception into a different world of the corridors and meeting rooms of the old building.  These were a strange mixture of marble floors and walls, with vaulted ceilings in what I would describe as a renaissance style of building (although someone may want to correct me on that).

Corridors of South Shields Town Hall

We proceeded to what would have been the reception desk in the splendour of the good old days at the front of the building but which had long since been relegated to a lesser and secondary standing now that the reception needed to be manned by an army of civil servants and technology in order to function.  Consider this:

At the height of Victorian power and prosperity in 1851, the Whitehall departments of central government employed only 1,628 civil servants.  Also in that year, when Britain led the world in commerce and industry, the whole public payroll, including postal workers, totalled just 75,000 [in 2003 it was 516,000 and now seven years later has probably surpassed that number by many more thousands].  The vast expansion of the Civil Service has gone hand in hand with Britain's decline.  In 1900, when the British Empire covered a quarter of the globe, the Foreign Office employed 142.  It now has 5,620

 Source: Steve Doughty, Social Affairs Correspondent, Daily Mail 2003.  Words in square brackets have been added by me.

We enquired at the reception desk, which was at the foot of a grand double-turn staircase, where the statue might be, explaining that Thomas Young was my great uncle. Again, we were treated remarkably well and were escorted to the statue that was located in a recess above the first landing of the stairway.   Quite astonishing really.  I didn't really know what to say or think, just a feeling of immense pride and honour that I was somehow connected to such a remarkable person.

Pte. Thomas Young VC

Note:

From the genealogy research it came to light that Thomas Young was born Thomas Morrell.  His mother had died (we assume) and his father then married my grandmother's mother.  Thomas Morrell's father also died at a very early age and my grandmother's mother took Thomas as her own and married my grandmother's father and therefore became Young.  Thomas Morrell also took and used the Young family name.  I'm not sure, but I'm convinced that my grandmother did not know, as did neither of her other 12 brothers and sisters, that Thomas was not in fact her blood relation.  She never mentioned or even suggested this to me at any time and it's my belief that she lived her life believing him to be her true brother.

The following link will take you to Durham Light Infantry web site where there are details about Thomas Young and his VC award on the (it's far more interesting than anything I have to say): Thomas Young VC

We then drove to Marsden Cliffs for a walk along the coast leading to Whitburn where my grandmother and her family originally came from. 

Marsden Cliffs

Souter Lighthouse and Foghorn

We passed through Whitburn and stopped briefly to walk through the cemetery for clues to any relatives that may have been buried there.  When searching through the older parts of the cemetery I was saddening to see how many children were buried there as well as victims of mining accidents and those that had died relatively young (probably through disease or war): previous generations must have been all too familiar with death on a regular basis, a familiarity that we have been fortunate enough not to experience.  It was hard to imagine the village it as it would have been in my grandmother's day when the mines and mining, now long gone, would have been the hub of the village and life in general.

Hartlepool Marina

The rest of the day was spent driving along the coast, passing through Hartlepool and then into Middlesbrough and over the amazing Transporter Bridge.  I'd often seen this from a distance and imagined that the bridge was high above the river but that isn't the case.  In order to allow shipping to pass the bridge's gantries are high above the river but there is a gondola suspended from cables from the gantries that carries the cars and passengers at the same height as the river banks.  It's an amazing concept that works really well and despite the gondola being suspended from cables it has virtually no swinging movement to it as you might expect.

Middlesbrough Transporter Bridge

The Gondola to Take You Across

The following day, we decided to go to the Durham Light Infantry Museum to see Thomas Young's actual VC which was kept there but we very nearly didn't make it.  Being the first one up in the morning I wanted to fetch some gear out of my car.  I'd remembered that I'd left my car keys in Tom and Judith's car so I took their car keys, which were on a key ring containing all the keys for the house and went and unlocked their car and retrieved my car keys.  I then went to the boot of my car, took out the items I wanted and slammed the boot shut.  In that split second, just as the boot clunked closed I had an awful sinking feeling: did I leave the keys in the boot?  Yes, of course I did, along with my car keys as well.  And my car was locked (the boot can be opened in isolation without opening the car doors).  And I don't have a spare set keys (300 quid plus from Volvo - that's 1/5 of the cars value -  and only from Volvo because the key is encoded).

Sheepishly I had to confess to Tom and Judith what I'd done.  Fortunately (for me, not for them), I'd locked their keys in the boot as well and as they were with the RAC there were grounds to call them out.  Within 30 minutes the RAC were on the scene and the man from the RAC jumped out of his van, looked at the Volvo and of course said "That's the worst car in the world to lock your keys in".  Why?  Because even if you open the car there's still no way to access the boot without destroying the rear seats because there's no remote boot release in the car and whilst the seats can be dropped for extra storage space, this can only be done from inside the boot.

After signing a release form to say that the RAC wouldn't be responsible for any damage to the car - I did ask half jokingly if the retrieval process involved one of those hydraulic cutters that you see the fire brigade using to rescue car accident victims -  the guy went to work.   The process involved using an inflatable bladder to squeeze the boot lid over to create a slightly bigger gap between the lid and the body.  A wire was then used to hook the wiring loom leading to the boot and tease it into a position where it could be accessed in the gap between the boot seal and the boot lid.  With the skill of a brain surgeon, the RAC man then used tweezers, scalpel and tiny pliers to separate the cable from the loom that controlled the boot latch (I'm making this sound too easy), whilst I stood over him mopping his brow (not really, I was in the kitchen drinking tea and eating bacon sandwiches).  He then cut the cable and then using a 12v battery connected it to the exposed ends and hey presto! the boot sprung open.  And he did a sterling job in not scratching the car and causing absolutely minimum damage.  Thereafter, the wiring loom was repaired and I can report the patient has made a full recovery.

With the car fixed, Judith and I headed to Durham (without Tom, who has the patients of a 3 year old and finds libraries and museums boring) and went to the DLI museum.  There was memorial plaque outside regarding all those who had served with the DLI and had been awarded the VC.  We did a tour of the excellent museum and went to the medal room to see Thomas Young's VC.  My grandmother often told me how he would often offer to pawn it in the local pub in exchange for a few beers but the landlord always refused to accept it and just gave him a drink anyway, so I suppose it's lucky that it's not hidden away in a private collection somewhere.

Similarly, there's another story where the medal was lost:

Private Thomas Young was known as the "Cornfield VC" because he got drunk one night and lost his medals in a cornfield.
"He had the whole village out looking for them," said Norman Dick, of the South Shields branch of the Durham Light Infantry Association.

Source: The Shields Gazette, 04Jan07 

I'd not been to Durham before but I remember a dragon of a junior school teacher I had being from Durham, and during one lesson she showed us a photo of the Sanctury Knocker on the cathedral.  She asked us what we thought it was and why the handle was so shiny?  Of course, being a bog standard council estate school none of us had a clue: if it wasn't in our street or in Mote Park, we couldn't possibly know. I remember looking at the North Downs from our school playing fields and wondering what was over the other side.  A lost world of dinosaurs perhaps (I was nearly right - it's the Medway Towns!)?  There wasn't any way I was going to know that Durham even existed.  As a means of enlightenment everyone in the class had to write an essay from the point of view of someone fleeing persecution, trying to cross the city to seek sanctuary in the cathedral.  How the hell were we know what Durham city centre was like?

Sanctuary Knocker, Durham Cathedral

I have to say, having been to Canterbury Cathedral several times, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's, York Cathedral and even Nortre Dame, that Durham is is by far the most impressive. I was somewhat hacked off that the place was full of signs saying "No Photography".  Why not?  Not being one to be put off easily I walked around and surreptitiously snapped away.  I have no idea what the shots came out like as the film hasn't been developed yet and it's languishing in a draw at home so I'll probably never know.  But who cares, it was cocking a snoot to overly authoritarian rules and regulations that mattered.

Durham Cathedral

We'd also learnt that Thomas Young was buried in High Spen cemetery so we headed there.  After wandering around for a while we found his headstone.  It was a lovely place, overlooking the rolling hills of the countryside.  A fitting resting place for a hero.

Final Resting Place

After leaving Tom's I headed a short distance up the road to visit my mate Mark.  I don't really know what to say about him because there is so much to say - certainly more than enough to fill the pages of this blog several times over.  We've also been good friends since we met in the Falklands.  I supposed I could say that Mark is bird breeder by trade but he's not.  Breeding birds, specifically birds of prey, is his passion: his life: his sole purpose.  And he's become very, very good at it, despite having the whole Establishment stacked  him.  Determined, persistent and totally single minded is what he is 

Some This Year's Breeding Successes

As usual, I turned up at a inconvenient time when he was very, very busy but, and I should consider myself lucky (as well as not being mauled to death by the wolf masquerading as an Alsation at the entrance to his property) he always makes time for me - so long as I slot in with whatever he's doing.  Although I draw the line at popping the yoke sack out of and skinning dead-day-old chicks for feeding his birds.  When he wasn't busy, and I wasn't taking photographs of his incredible collection of birds, we'd sit in his field, drink coffee and catch up with what had happened in our lives since we'd last met (Jan 2008).  Invariably, infinitely more interesting stuff had happened in his than mine such is the life he leads and I enjoy immensely the time we are able to spend together.

I stayed for a couple of days before I was off again, hitting the road and flying back south.

A Holiday in England - Flights, Motors and Scilly

As the project had ended an extended trip to the UK was in order.  Having sacrificed an earlier opportunity to go on leave to the UK on the alter of the good of the project, I had negotiated in return an extended leave.  Usually, the standard 2 weeks isn't really enough to do anywhere near all the things you'd like to do, or have to do.  I was hoping an extended leave of double that time would allow me to do most,  if not all that I wanted to do.

First on the list was to meet up with friends I hadn't seen for some time.  Ideally, it would have been better for me if those friends were to come and visit me, rather than me having to travel the length and breadth of the country to visit them, but as I don't have a place to call my own (so to speak), and understanding that my friends have jobs and commitments then it was me that was going to doing the leg work.

In fact I didn't mind this.  I was actually looking forward to doing it and the idea of travelling extensively throughout the length and breadth of England during the summer months was highly appealing and something to look forward to.

The Glorious Kent Countryside

However, in order to make this happen I had to have some wheels.  Yes, I could have rented a car but the cost of renting something reasonable, comfortable and capable would have been a considerable lump of money and at the end of the holiday all I'd have to show for it was a rather large credit card bill.  Hence I had planned to buy a car and the reason was two-fold: apart from the aforementioned cost the second reason being I needed to acquire some no-claims discount.  Why?  Because when I do eventually return to the UK (hopefully in the not too distant future) I don't want the kind of car that I buy to be dictated by the cost of the insurance.  For this reason I also discounted the idea of borrowing a car from the kind offers that I'd received.

In an ideal world I'd step off the plane and into a waiting car that had been pre-purchased before my arrival but the ideal world is actually a different planet so that wasn't going to happen.

Several months before my due leave date I spent time trawling through the Autotrader and eBay going through the bitter-sweet process of choosing a vehicle, which ultimately bounced between the highly sensible, the practical and the downright reckless.  In the sensible range there was the Ford Focus.  Practical - Audi Estate.  Reckless - too many great choices but I kept swinging between a Porsche 993, AC Cobra kit car (with the Chevy 6 litre engine), Audi A8, Mercedes 300SE (which I really, really want) or any Alfa Romero.

And speaking of reckless I even considered buying on-line without actually having seen the vehicle but I resisted this as I knew there was high possibility it would end in tears.  The problem was though, I know just how time consuming buying a car can be and I didn't want looking for a car to dominate the time I had available to me.  So I reckoned that if I spent enough time researching what was available and the market rate I'd be able to earmark something in advance and nab it fairly quickly.  Within a week is what I had in mind . . . . .

My flight involved a domestic flight from Iloilo to Manila, then Manila to Doha and then onto Gatwick.  Primarily due to the amount of acquired kit I was lugging back to the UK, and partly because I'm going soft in my old age, I was flying business class.  The (Philippine Airlines) business class lounge in the Iloilo terminal was a disgrace.  I can understand that in a poor country the facilities maybe aren't so extensive or good but what I can't come to terms with or accept is them being filthy dirty.  It doesn't cost very much, especially in a place where labour is incredibly cheap, to keep a place clean.  The chairs and sofas were grubby and stained.  Behind the sofa there were mouse or lizard droppings that clearly, judging by the amount of dust there was, had been accumulating for some time.  Okay, so out of sight is out of mind but in one of the roller blinds there was a dead gecko for all to see but no one had bothered to remove it, despite the fact that the size of it would've made raising and lowering the blind rather difficult.  Yuk: I was glad to get out of there.  Even in Manila the lounge wasn't great either.

Slumming It In Business Class

When I arrived in Doha and went through transfer I was asked if I'd booked a hotel?  Why?  The transfer was only 3 hours.  Oh no it wasn't, it had been rescheduled and it was 10 hours after arrival.  To be fair, when I'd rebooked the flight there was a vague notification of the change but I missed it.  Not to worry, if you've ever been to the premium lounge in Doha, having to spend 10 hours there is a blessing rather than an ordeal.  However, as it was ramadan there was no free booze available, which was a bit of blow.  Still, there was lots of great food, coffee and after a shower I felt almost human and ready for the next leg of the journey.

It was an interesting flight out of Doha.  Passing up the west coast of the Arabian Gulf I could clearly see Kuwait City, the Iraq Central Marshes, Baghdad, then following the Tigris River to Mosul and the Mosul dam, the Iraq/Turkey border and then across the Black Sea (which was surprisingly large) and into Europe, which was lost in the clouds.

Down Town Baghdad

Back in England I made immediate plans to acquire a motor.  I had a look at an Alfa 166.  Nice but it didn't quite hit the spot.  An Audi A4 Estate 2.8 - very nice but no history.  Not even a log book.  And whilst it was rapid enough there was a strange over-heating, burning oil smell about it and my gut feeling was to give it a wide berth.  Having bought a dodgy BMW 323 a few years ago I've learnt to trust my instincts and not my let my heart rule my head.  I had a look at another Alfa, which was tatty and a clean Alfa is trouble so one that hasn't been not looked after is going to be heaps of hassle.

I was starting to panic as I could see this was going to take potentially longer than I had hoped and I had to control my anxiety to stop myself from rushing out and making a bad buy.  Then I was trawling though the Autotrader and just through boredom/desperation I had a look at the Volvos, which is a car I really hadn't considered at all (in the past I'd had an old 144 and an S40 and wasn't impressed with either).  There were two S80s that caught my eye.  Big, comfortable cruisers that could chew up the miles, with a 2.4 petrol engine with the right blend of performance and economy (this was the sensible coming out in me!).  I went to have a look at the one nearest to my house, which was being sold by a Chris Moyles lookalike dealer operating out of his living room .  The car was a one (company) owner, leather upholstery, cruise control, central locking, alarm, all the air-bags you could ask for (in the event of an accident I imagine it would be like falling into a swimming pool filled with pillows), full service history and all the toys.  And lovely to drive and so it was a deal (and a steal at £1500).

An Old Man with his Old Man's Car

Having made myself mobile the first plan was to head to the Isle of Scilly.  On the way I stopped off to visit my mate Gary in Haywards Heath.  A somewhat difficult situation as he had recently split with his wife and was going through a divorce.  I was going to say an acrimonious divorce but then is there any other kind?  Over the years I've felt as though I've become part of the family, having known my mate since we met in the Falklands in 1985 and having remained firm friends ever since.  More recently I'd spent so much time living with them when my house was rented and I'd had nowhere else to stay during visits to the UK (something I'm immensely grateful for), that I'd practically become part of the furniture. My first stop was to visit the wife and kids in the estranged family home.

Thereafter it was to stop over with Gary with a couple of drinking sessions and a day trip to Brighton.  However, what became apparent was in these situations you are constantly being manoeuvred to take sides and nail your colours to the mast as there's no room for being neutral, try as hard as you might.  None of this was really a problem for me and I'm always happy to lend a listening ear but I did find myself at times thinking that both of them actually want the same thing, but can't agree to or find any middle ground and so the whole process descends into one of blind, bitter self destruction, which is incredibly sad.  Not withstanding this, I still enjoyed my time in sunny Haywards Heath.

On Brighton Beach

Driving down to Cornwall to catch the ferry to Scilly I was convinced the car would breakdown as it seemed too good to be true, but it behaved and performed impeccably. The plan was to stay overnight in Penzance and then take the ferry to St. Mary's in the morning so my first priority was to find a B&B for the night.  As I pulled into Penzance and passed the harbour where the ferry departs, right opposite there was the Dolphin Inn, made from Cornish granite and with a Room Available notice hanging up in the window.  Being perfectly placed for the ferry I phoned from the car to enquire if there was still a vacancy.  There was and the bidding started at £75 for the night.

The Dolphin Inn, Penzance

"Phew, that's a bit expensive I said".

"It includes breakfast for the two of you", the man on the other end said.

"But there's only me", I retorted and the chap said "All right, you can have it for £60".

"Can't you do better than that", I asked?  "Cor blimey, I'm trying to make a living here", he said, ". . . . okay, £50 then".  

Perfect.  I quickly dumped my bags in the room and went and parked the car in the (rip-off) long-term car park and hoofed it back to the Dolphin, walking along the wonderful Penzance promenade. Huge colourful flags had been erected which looked vivid in the evening sun.  The lido pool on the seafront adjacent to the harbour had been renovated to it's former glory and also adorned with the large colourful flags.  Before dinner I had a wander around the town, which is quite picturesque although at the end of town where the railway station is it is rather more run down with its kebab and mobile phone shops.

Penzance Promenade

I had dinner in the Dolphin, which I wouldn't have done if the room price had been £75, and I had quite a few beers too so I suppose they made their money from me in the bar rather than in the room rate.  I imagined the room was going to be overwhelmingly chintzy but it was modern but without being out of character with the pub and the building.  It had rattly, draughty sliding sash windows so that made me feel like I was at home in Lenham.  The only real drawback was that the toilet had a built-in macerator that fired up automatically when the toilet was flushed and which sounded like a train passing through the bathroom.  If this wasn't bad enough, the sensor that triggered the unit was so sensitive that when I went for a widdle in the dead of night (too much beer) it triggered the macerator and the unexpected noise nearly made me soon snapped me back to sobriety.

Refurbished Lido Pool

Early the next morning I had breakfast in the bar and a wonderful breakfast it was too.  I couldn't decide between the full English or the kippers but decided on the kippers in keeping with the seaside theme.  Next it was the short walk to the Scillonion Ferry and onwards to the Scilly Isles to meet up with a Pete, a mate of mine who I'd known since our school days, and who lived a few houses up the road from where we lived as kids.  That was until he ran away and joined the Royal Navy (he didn't really run away but it sounds better).  We spent our childhood practically living in the park at that backed onto our road: fishing, swimming, boating on an upturned car roof on the lake, playing Tarzan on a rope swing of inadequate rope thickness, making Dutch arrows, cycling on bikes with must-have cow horn handle bars, tearing around on Vespa scooter of a questionable source and crawling through half constructed sewers.  I'm sure there's a PSP or Wii game for all those activities these days.  

Mackerel Fishing

I was met off the ferry by Pete and we went and dropped my things off at his house in the centre of St. Mary's.  The next few days were ones of fishing, checking and baiting lobster pots, walks around the island, visiting different pubs, eating freshly caught seafood and sailing on Pete's yacht (to another pub on another island).  I just thought that was such a wonderful thing to be able to do: sail from one island to the other, jump in a dingy and row ashore to visit the pub, have a meal of peanuts (too late for the restaurant by 1 minute - how very British), row back to the yacht to open a bottle of wine (or was it two?), have a whizz over the side without falling into the freezing water and then sail back in the morning in time for Pete to open his souvenir/gift shop.  Brilliant.  I had an absolutely fantastic time and was reluctant to leave but leave I had to, and I did so with a cloudy mind having been coerced the night before into sharing a bottle of port on top of several beers and a considerable quantity of wine (something I seem no longer capable of doing with any resilience these days).  But what a great send off.

What shall we do with a drunken sailor, indeed?

Freshly Caught, Freshly Cooked Lunch

Scilly Houses

Mixing Business With Pleasure - Part II

The following day it was the end of the pleasure side of things and back to the business element.  Hence we were up early again and headed off to Bataan (pronounced Bata-an).  From Banaue it's around 250 miles to the project location in Bataan so we were in for a long day and long drive (or rather Rolly was).  Most of the journey was through fairly non-de script towns and the scenery was all very familiar, consisting of predominantly rice fields and other plantations.

We arrived at Clark, the former US air base, at around 3:00pm and drove through it to take a look.  This completely shattered what I imagined to be an airbase - i.e. a runway, a few hangers and a barracks.  This was like a complete town.  No, it was more like a small city.  Apparently, it covers an area of over 14 square miles (Wikipedia - Clark Air Base).  The extent of the infrastructure is phenomenal.  And if I thought Clark was big, we then headed to Subic Bay, the former US naval base, which was even bigger still.  It must have hurt for the Americans to have to walk away from so much after they were effectively kicked out in 1991.

From Clark to Subic Bay you skirt the edges of Mt. Pinatubo, which erupted so violently back in 1991 (Pinatubo).  Along the route to Subic Bay we passed over one of the old larva flows and it's huge.  It's hard to imagine the amount of debris and destruction that came down these routes.

After a brief stop in Subic Bay we decided to push on to Bataan and took the back road down the Bataan peninsular, through endless barracks, warehouses and housing left behind by the Yanks, before moving back into more familiar Philippine territory.  As we moved down the Bataan peninsular the massive but extinct Mariveles volcano dominated the skyline.  It's not particularly high at only 1388m but it covers a huge area.

By the time we reached Balanga it was dark so the immediate plan was to find somewhere to sleep for the night.  We drove through the town into the neighbouring town of Pilar and then onto Orion but there were no obvious hotels of any distinction.  We ended up back in Balanga and found a motel type place.  Rolly went and checked out the room rates, which were reasonable enough so we went to check out the rooms.  As we were walking to the room I noticed something out of the corner of my eye, in gutter road between the accommodation blocks: a giant cockroach.  Okay, so that's not such a big deal in the Philippines but when we went to the room there were two or 3 in the room which sealed it for me: I wasn't going to be staying in this place.  Then as we left the room I noticed more cockroaches on the door frames; in the corridor; on the ceiling; in fact, just about everywhere.  This place had a serious infestation.  I wonder if it was because it was next door to the KFC?

Which is where we went to eat!  Time was short and if we didn't eat somewhere we were going to miss out.

We then drove a little out of town and found another newish type hotel.  The rates were reasonable so we checked in.  Apart from the ants and the karaoke in the street opposite it was near enough to being all right.

In the morning we went for breakfast in the town of Mariveles, which is on the southern most tip of the peninsular and consists of many factories and a small port and fishing terminal.  The town proper was busy and had a one-way system due to the narrowness of the roads.  We played safe and had breakfast in a brand new Jollibee (the Philippines answer to Mcdonalds).

After breakfast we headed up to the refinery to see what we could find out.  We couldn't get into the refinery (they wouldn't let us in) but we made several enquiries and discovered where the site was and what was going on.  It may have seemed like a long way to come just to find out this information but without actually travelling the roads and seeing the place for yourself there's no real way of finding out what's there and what isn't there.

Petron Refinery from the Air

Having found out what we could it was time to head back so the plan was for me to head across Manila Bay on the ferry, whilst Rolly headed back home to drop his car off and take a flight back to Iloilo.  We got to the ferry terminal but the gates were locked.  We were told that the ferries had stopped running for maintenance.  So we had to come up with Plan B.  We decided that I'd travel north to San Fernando with Rolly where we'd part company.  There was little point in him having to go all the way to the other side of Manila just to drop me off at the airport so In San Fernando I was to take the bus.

Mt. Arayat

At San Fernando I was expecting to end up at a bus station but Rolly just stopped on the side of a very busy dual carriageway in the town.  "Where's the bus stop?", I asked,  "I thought you'd drop me off at the bus station". 

"Don't worry, boss", Rolly said, "The bus will stop here".  I couldn't see how?   There were hundred of people and buses and cars all over the place.  Suddenly, Rolly stepped out into the road and flagged down a coach which pulled over and stopped, causing traffic chaos.  On I hopped and off I went - as easy as that!  The bus fare was a miserly Php99 (£1.42) and the bus driver set off like his life depended on us being in Manila within the hour (it's a 2 hour journey).

To be fair the bus was clean and comfortable.  I had no idea where it was going to stop in Manila in the event it stopped in an area that I didn't know and which looked pretty rough.  I was the last one off, thinking it was going to go further and stepped off into a maelstrom of touts all vying to organise a taxi for me.  It makes me distinctly nervous when I'm in these places and surrounded by some pretty rough looking characters.  The taxis that were on the side of the road obviously thought their Christmas had come early and were quoting stupid rates to go to Makati and, as much as I wanted to be out of there, I wasn't going to be totally ripped off in the process.  And they wouldn't negotiate.  Then by chance and luck a cab pulled over and I asked him how much to go to Makati and he said he'd do in on the meter.  Unheard of in Manila - especially for a foreigner - so I jumped in.  This infuriated the touts and they were demanding money from me for organising my taxi (which they didn't), which I responded to pretty bluntly from the safety of the back of the cab.  I don't mind helping out but I don't like being intimidated into handing over cash.

It was too early to go and hang around the airport so I wandered around the Makati shops for while then went and has a late lunch and a couple of beers before heading to the airport.

Mixing Business with Pleasure - Part I

July 2010

The project in Bataan is now looking like a distinct possibility so I decided that a trip to the project location was a good idea in order to gauge the lie of the land and see what the place had to offer.

Bataan (Wikipedia Bataan) is just across the bay from Manila on the Bataan Peninsula and is perhaps more well known through the notoriety of the Bataan Death March, in which American and allied Asian troops, captured by the Japanese, were forced marched over 60 miles under brutal conditions to Tarlac in the north.  Of the 72,000 prisoners it is estimated that some 11,000 died en-route, perishing either from starvation, thirst or through sheer brutality at the hands of the Japanese (bataandiary.com).

The trip to Bataan seemed like an ideal opportunity to combine it with a weekend visit the rice terraces of Banaue (pronounced Ban-aw-ee), a place I'd been planning to go and see for several years ever since I first read about it, and which was top of my list of things to-do whilst in the Philippines, if not the world.  Banaue is described in the Philippines as the 8th Wonder of the World and is a World Heritage site, consisting of spectacular rice terraces carved out of the mountainous terrain and fed by an ingenious system of irrigation channels.  They were apparently constructed between some 2000 to 6000 years ago by the Ifugao tribes that inhabit the mountains of Luzon (Wikipedia Banaue)

Banaue is located in the middle of Luzon so on the weekend I flew up to Tuguegarao (probably further north than necessary but it was dictated by flight availability) to meet up with a colleague, Rolly, in his home-town.  He had travelled up the day before in order to pre-arrange transportation, using his own car for the duration of our planned trip.

As we were already in Tuguegarao it was decided to visit the nearby nearby Calleo Caves, which would mean we wouldn't have enough time to make it to Banaue that day, but the caves seemed like a worthwhile thing to do and I didn't know if I'd have to opportunity to visit them sometime in the future.  

Calleo Caves

The caves were reasonably impressive, formed from limestone and which had a chapel situated in one of the larger caves.  It would have been interesting to have seen a service being held there and to hear the cave's acoustics during the hymn singing.  There were plenty of stalactites and stalagmites, albeit somewhat worn and abused in places where they were accessible, and the remnants of a colony of bats (although I guess not as many as there should have been - probably driven away by the hymn singing).  Having said that the caves were reasonably impressive and worth a visit, even if they weren't as impressive as the Gomantong Caves in Sabah, Borneo, but then I doubt that many are.  I'd even say they probably weren't as good as the caves in Bulabog (see Jungle Trekking to the Bat Cave), which were more pristine, if not as big.

Chapel in the Caves

By the time we'd finished at the caves there wasn't enough time to make it over the mountains into Banaue so we headed to Solano to eat and bed down for the night, with the plan being to head off again very early in the morning.  The drive was pleasant enough, if not spectacular, consisting of rice and crop fields in a wide valley with mountain ranges in the distance.  In Solano, after the usual dinner of chicken and rice (I'm now heartily sick of chicken and rice) and after rejecting some abysmal hotels, we found an enormous brand new hotel called the Highland Hotel on the Banaue side of town that was apparently owned by a Brit.  It was odd, built to look like an old style colonial mansion house with a massive lobby and huge central staircase that dominated the entrance.  So much so that the reception area was hidden behind the stairs.  But it was new, clean and cheap at only Php1000 a night, if a little chintzy, so we grabbed a room each managing to avoid the temptations of the nearby nightclub and went to bed early.

Giant People Live Here

On the Way Home from School
Health & Safety UK would have a fright

Up bright and early the following the day and after a rushed cup of coffee we headed off to Banaue.  The road was a steep climb into the mountains and Rolly's rather underpowered Honda struggled somewhat, so much so that I was convinced it was going to overheat or just give up.  But Japanese engineering won the day and we were soon over the peak and heading down again into the valley towards Banaue.

Sunrise on the Way to Banaue

On arrival it was rather disappointing and not the spectacular sight I imagined but it transpired that Banaue is more of a springboard into the surrounding areas where the more impressive terraces can be seen.  The town itself is mess.  I can't think of any other way to describe it.  The way that the buildings have been constructed, some 12 storeys high against the sheer face of the hills is quite impressive but they are ugly structures constructed from brutal, basic reinforced concrete with a perpetual look of an unfinished state about them.  The town definitely needs a makeover.

Banaue Town
Not the prettiest sight

Initially, on arrival we thought it would be a good idea to drive to a place called Batad.  This doesn't appear on any maps but I had learnt about it from one of the group that was on the four-waterfalls tour (Four Waterfalls in One Day) and so was keen to visit the place.  Unfortunately, the road was in such a poor condition that a 4x4 would have been necessary to traverse it so we have to give up fairly quickly and head back to the town.

We decided the best option was to find some accommodation first so we drove around and on the hill leading up from the river to the road out there was a lodge (The Stairway Lodge and Restaurant) that we checked into and had a surprisingly well prepared breakfast.  The rooms looked basic but clean and there was a fantastic view from the window across the valley to the nearby terraces.  The bathroom left a great deal to be desired.  Air conditioning wasn't necessary as the temperatures were pleasantly cool in the high mountain air and we were told (apparently correctly) that there were no mossies.  The floors were constructed from a wonderful dark pine wood as was some of the wall panelling, which gave the place a warm homely feel to it.  It certainly looked better on the inside than the outside.

The Stairway Lodge

Stairway Lodge from the Inside

Whilst checking in we were approached by a local with a wonky eye who was offering us tours.  He tried to insist on speaking to me but I knew that western rates would be much higher than local rates so I kept directing him to Rolly for the negotiations.  After some haggling, verging on bullying, we managed to get the tours at something approaching a reasonable rate and even then it was comparatively expensive when you consider the usual cost of tricycle transportation and our labour rates for our workers, which is the benchmark I use to measure the cost of everything in the Philippines.

Bauaue Kids

The plan was to go to a hot spring for the rest of the day and then to go to Batad the following day when we could make an early start, so we dumped our belongings into our rooms and went back down to reception where there was old Cock-eye and a tricycle with a driver.  Rolly sat on the motorbike saddle behind the driver but because of the side car attachment you can't straddle the saddle but have to sit side on.  I sat in the tricycle carriage with not enough headroom so I was hunched up and our cock-eyed tour guide sat cross-legged precariously on the roof on the tricycle, which is normally reserved for the luggage.

From Left to Right:  Rolly, Wonky-Eye, Trike Driver

We headed off up into the mountains and the road very soon deteriorated into a dreadful state and the ride was torturous as the driver revved and fought with the bike to keep in on course and we bounced around on the bike.  How Cock-eye didn't fall off the roof I shall never know.  The frequent stops to take photographs was a welcome respite from the journey.  However, where ever I wanted to stop the cock-eyed guide always said that there was better view around the corner, although this "better view" never seemed to materialise.

The Road to the Hot Springs

We ended up in a small town where we had to sign a visitors' register and pay an entrance fee of Php20 (30p), which was the same for locals and foreigners alike.  We continued on following the river for some distance along a track through tiny villages.  We eventually stopped and then starting hiking through the terraces along the narrow wall tops that formed the steps.  From a distance they looked quite small but closer up they were, in places, up to 12ft high and a misplaced foot would have meant a nasty tumble.  Had it been the planting season this might not have been so bad and would have ended up in a muddy but soft landing.  However, it was nearer harvesting time so the paddies had dried out so a fall would have more likely ended with some broken bones.  It was interesting to see the local kids who live with this day in, day out, walking along the edges of the terraces carrying out their day to day business.  No busy-body heath and safety here and no one to sue if you didn't mind your step and fell off.

On the Way to the Hot Springs

The hike ended at hot, sulphurous spring where I had a paddle.  It wasn't that hot but then it was being diluted by the freezing, roaring, gushing water from the adjacent river.  I tried to find the source of the spring to see just how hot it was but I couldn't find it.  Rolly was far more adventurous and took a dip in his skiddies in the freezing river.  After a short period of resting and relaxing we were off again and heading back to the tricycle for the crashing and bashing journey back, which I wasn't looking forward to.

Site of the Bogyah Hot Springs

Back at the lodge I had a shower before dinner.  The shower was a strange arrangement with a bulbous head on a pipe sticking out of the wall with a curly wire attached to it as the water heater was contained within the shower head.  To me, this was akin to using a hair dryer in the bath but then perhaps I'm too health and safety conscious.  The switch for heater was also in the bathroom and I was particularly nervous about throwing a breaker switch stood barefoot on a wet floor.  I use the term "heater" quite loosely in this context as it barely heated the water at all.  It did however, take the chill off the freezing water (but only just) which was definitely more welcome than having to shower in the normally icy water.

The Luxurious Shower

That evening we had dinner in the lodge, which was passable but nothing special and failed to live up to the expectations of the breakfast. That night, despite the roar of the river in the valley, I was frequently awoken by barking dogs and the power was off for most of the time, which is a reflection of the dire power shortages there are in the Philippines.  This also leads to the Philippines having probably the most expensive electricity I have ever encountered.  As a result the lodge didn't have any electrical sockets available and if you wanted to charge your phone, laptop or camera battery you had to pay and the staff would take your battery and charger to concealed power socket.  

The next day we were up early and back into the tricycle and heading towards Batad.  This was a different tricycle as Cock-eye told me the one from the day before was in for repairs. Obviously it wasn't used to carrying the bulk of an over-fed, under-exercised westerner.  The road to Batad whilst not great was definitely better than the previous day's journey.  We came to a stop at a junction from where we were to hike from and there was a small hut on the side of the road out of which appeared a tiny, wiry old lady with a wrinkled leathery face.  She chatted to me in remarkably good English and we exchanged pleasantries.  She asked me, in a very kind and sympathetic way, if I'd like to buy one of her handmade woven baskets.  She seemed so nice and I felt somewhat sorry for her being so old and frail that I desperately wanted to buy one, but as I didn't want to lug it around with me to Batad I promised her I'd buy one on my return.

On the Way Up to the Saddle

From the drop-off point we started hiking up a steep track.  Cock-eye pointed to the top of the mountain and told me that's where we were heading, to a point called The Saddle.  I wasn't expecting this.  Although it was quite a hike and pretty steep we made good progress as the route alternated between being a very good paved road to a worn-out-washed-away gravelly track.  At the saddle there was a couple of small shacks selling souvenirs and refreshments and a rather good view point that looked over where we'd just come from, and in the opposite direction, to where we were headed.

Where We'd Just Come From . . . 

. . . Where We Were Going

Having reached the highest point the only way was down.  To begin with there were some concrete steps (414 to be exact) that varied in height from virtually non-existent to, and these were the majority, ridiculously large.  On the way down we passed several locals on their way up carrying impossibly large sacks of rice to take to market, which was a stark reminder of how hard some people's existence is.

The 414 Steps

Once at the bottom of the steps it was a pleasant enough walk through forested areas with glimpses of rice terraces through the trees giving a hint of what was to come.  The final destination was arrived at suddenly and unexpectedly from the forest and turning a corner where you're greeted with the most amazing vista of the spectacular terraces carved out of a mountain side and looking like a amphitheatre of rice.  The way that this view was suddenly presented was similar in a way to visiting Petra, whereby you approach through a narrow canyon and then all of sudden you are presented with a view of the main Treasury structure carved out of rock.  Presentation is everything.

From this position on the hillside we stopped for some light refreshment.  All the time we were being chased by Cock-eye to hurry along as he kept telling us that it was going to rain in the afternoon (not might rain but unequivocally would rain) and he was afraid our access might be blocked by a landslide.  I took this to be him scamming us so he could back early either so he could do the bare minimum to earn his cash or because he wanted to go and spend it all in the pub, so I wilfully resisted any attempts he made to rush us along.

After a short rest we headed off to see the waterfall (hidden by the hills) on the opposite side of the valley.  This involved walking across the terraces where the rice was in varying states of growth and harvest.  The construction of the terraces here were different from those in Banaue in that they were constructed from stones and boulders, some of a tremendous size that we tried speculating how they would have lifted and placed them thousands of years ago when there was no mechanisation.  Maintenance of the terraces is becoming a problem due to the younger people moving to the cities and not wanting to take up the hardship of hill farming.  In several places the terraces had collapsed through landslide and it was apparent that no effort was being made to repair them.  If you want to see this place for yourself then you had better make it sooner rather than later.

View From the Terraces

Halfway across the terraces there was a small timber shelter with an old man inside who looked like he was a hundred years old and was dressed in traditional Ifugao garb.  Clearly too old to work in the fields he made a living out of charging passing tourists to take his photo.  I reckoned he had the most lucrative job in the whole of the valley and his toothless glee and excitement when a large group of Japanese tourists turned up was particularly amusing.

On the far side of the terraces there was house perched on a ridge looking out over the whole scene.  I thought how wonderful and lucky it would be to live there.  The place had an area to rest, serving drinks and snacks but the impression I got from the children that lived there and were manning the refreshments was that they were indifferent to the surrounding view, and probably didn't understand what all the fuss was about.  I guess that a combination of familiarity and living in such harsh and austere conditions makes your primary focus one of purely having enough to eat and drink rather than enjoying the view.

House With a View

From here there was another precipitous track down to the waterfall and whilst it was difficult enough to traverse we noticed that the slopes of the mountain were planted with crops.  Heaven knows how the local farmers are able to keep their footing whilst they are ploughing, tilling, planting and harvesting their crops on such precarious slopes.  The water fall is located at the end of a horseshoe bend in the river that is ominously scarred by a huge landslide that has gouged a chunk out of the mountain out and almost threatened to dam the river.  Similarly, the falls can only be seen once you are almost on top of them and it's an impressive sight, far better than any of those I saw during the Four Waterfalls in One Day trek.  Best of all, it was pristine and spotlessly clean .

The Glorious Waterfall

Wonky-eye didn't extend himself to go down to the falls but Rolly and I did and it was well worth it.   The falls were deafeningly loud and I decided to brave it and go for a swim even though the water was freezing.  However, the most difficult part was the monkey rocks in the river bed - so called because they hurt your feet so much that you hobble, swing your arms and make oooh, oooh, ahhh, ahhh noises like a monkey as you try to walk over them.  It was so painful underfoot that I wasn't able to lower myself in to the freezing water but clumsily fell into it.  But it was wonderfully refreshing after the sweating and exertion of the day's hiking.

Wonky-eye had told us not to spend too long at the pool and was rushing us not to be too late in going back due to the imminent rain, even though at this time there was brilliant sunshine.

Kids at the House With a View

He headed back up to the arrival point and had a late lunch and a short rest before heading back.  By this time Rolly was having problems with his leg and was limping so we made slow progress going back up again.  Around halfway up we could hear singing that grew louder and louder as we drew nearer and it was such a sweet, melodic sound that I was really curious to see where it was coming from.  On a bend on the trail there was a pool a few feet below the track fed by small stream cascading down the mountain, and there were three young girls (I'd estimate them to be 10 ~ 12 years old) collecting water and singing their hearts out with gusto.  They were wonderfully in tune and despite our sudden presence they carried on with their singing which really lifted the heart and spirits to hear such a great sound.  I was absolutely captivated by this and couldn't drag myself away but Cock-eye was insisting that the rains were imminent and so we had to leave.  It was a marvellous sound and scene that will live with me forever.

Harvested Rice

We eventually reached the 414 monster steps and Rolly's leg was giving him so much gyp that he decided to continue to follow the somewhat longer, but not so steep trail whilst I elected to take the steps (still feeling invigorated from the cold dip in the waterfall plunge pool and lifted by the wonderful singing).  Without the burden of a lumber rucksack and feeling fitter than normal the stairs didn't present me with too much of a problem and I was back at The Saddle well ahead of Rolly and Cock-eye and so took some time to relax and enjoy the views.

As soon as Rolly arrived we started off down the mountain again but on this side the skies were ominously dark and threatening - it look like Cock-eye was going to be right.  Around halfway down there were smatterings of a rain shower that came and went and I thought we were going to miss the worst of it.  A jeepney, ridiculously overloaded came past us on its way up the track, with people and luggage hanging off every available inch of it.  Cock-eye told us that we could've taken the jeepney for a bit more money but I was rather glad we walked.

At the bottom of the trail the tricycle was there waiting for us.  Cock-eye was panicking now about the weather and really wanted to get a move on but I'd promised the old lady that I'd buy something from her.  I think Php300 after some protracted haggling for a little wicker pot was a complete rip-off and Rolly and everyone else thought so too, so I tried to justify the expense to myself in that the money had gone to some kind of a good cause.

No sooner we were in the tricycle (I had to share the cab with Cock-eye because he didn't want to sit on the roof and get wet - although judging by the whiff of him a good soaking wouldn't have done him any harm) the heavens just opened in a downpour of biblical proportions.  Luckily for me there was a wafer thin piece of cloth acting as the door to the tricycle's cab with kept me wonderfully dry . . . . not!  Very soon I was totally drenched all down one side whilst Cock-eye was nice and dry sandwiched between me and the bike itself.  I didn't mind the soaking but I was very concerned about my cameras.  The road was very soon completely flooded and totally underwater so the driver couldn't really see where he was going.  At one point he ploughed into a really deep puddle that caused a bow wave of water to flood the cab, soaking Cock-eye in the process.  He was scowling and cursing like a good 'un and I was convinced he was secretly blaming me for delaying our return.

Back in Banaue we came to the bridge over the river and it appeared that there was more water on the bridge than what was under it as it was covered with around 2~3 feet deep with water.  I thought there was no way the trike would make it and I was about to get out and wade through when the driver revved the throttle and just went for it.  It was amazing that he made it across the bridge when the engine, exhaust and most of the rest of the bike was under water, but he cleared the flood to the other side of the bridge (although Cock-eye got another good soaking).  From here it was a short ride up the hill to the lodge and home in time for a very slightly tepid shower (I actually think the rain water was warmer) and something hot to eat.  

I spent the rest of the evening writing up my notes of the day's events before going to bed relatively early to the roaring sound of the now flooded river in the valley below, wondering whether there would be a landslide as a result of all the rain and if I was going to awake floating down the river.