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The Meaning or Meaningless of Easter.

April 5, 2026

It’s Easter weekend. Our close is clogged with strange cars. Several of our neighbours are hosting family gatherings. The shouts and screams of young children disturbs our usual Sunday morning peace as people’s grandkids let off steam in the garden. Maybe soon, some of them will go on an Easter egg hunt or will be devouring some egg -shaped milk chocolate. I did it myself when I was a young kid.

I used to teach RE ( as well as history and geography) and a significant part of the curriculum was about Easter. Although we had to teach comparative world religions, studying the beliefs and practices of Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism etc, the emphasis had to be on Christianity as we are still officially a Christian country. For Christians, Easter is the most important festival of the year, even eclipsing Christmas in importance. That is difficult to believe in 21st century Britain in what is an increasingly secular society. It seems that our 2 main festivals are now driven mainly by commercial interests and the media rather than by the church. We go through the religious motions of course. Today’s news contained the obligatory item that the King and Queen and the rest of the Royal family ( except Harry and Andrew) have attended church at Sandringham this Easter morning. However, when I asked my pupils what Easter meant to them, the overwhelming answer was time off school and eating chocolate eggs. They might have added, time with their extended family. So much for all my carefully crafted lessons about the Christian idea of Jesus dying to save our sins, understanding humankind’s suffering by being tortured on a wooden cross and then being born again or resurrected to offer us hope and the promise of eternal life. ( if we play our cards right and the spirit in the sky forgives us our repented sins.)

I don’t blame my students as they were merely accurate representations of the society they lived in, although I don’t think they would have done very well in the end of term exam. When I was a young kid, I too looked forward to the time off school and the colourfully-wrapped easter eggs that my indulgent grandma and grandad would give to me. However I grew up in more religious times, back in the 1950s, when many more people attended church on Sundays and we children were packed off to 2 sessions of Sunday School as well as to an evening service. My parents and grandparents were Primitive Methodists ( the “Prims”) and were very strict followers of the rules that had been laid down for them by John Wesley and his mates at Oxford University in the 18th century. It was a sort of “off the peg” religion for the masses. Follow the rules ( the “method”) and you will lead a happy life and go to heaven when you die. This stuff about conquering death was, and still is, a very comforting, hopeful thought for many and explains why christianity became so popular. It also explains why Easter is so important.

As a child Easter also meant having to go to church twice in a weekend. It was a bit of a trial as all I wanted to do was go out and play with my mates and scoff my chocolate. On Good Friday we all went to church for a bout of communal misery. We were thinking of Jesus suffering on the cross and being subjected to a long, painful death. Apparently, the victim nailed to the cross didn’t die from blood loss, thirst or starvation as one might expect. He died because the dead weight of his slumping body crushed his lungs. You learn some gruesome things when you are an RE teacher. The mood in the Good Friday chapel was sombre and we sang down-beat hymns such as : ” There is a green hill far away, without a city wall, where our dear Lord was crucified, He died to save us all”. We were told that Jesus Christ, who was either God’s son or God in human form, had volunteered to take the punishment that God was going to dish out to the human race for all the bad things they had done while on earth. Jesus was the ultimate substitute. He was giving us all a second chance. All we had to do was confess our sins, say a sincere “sorry” and all would be well, as Jesus had already suffered our punishment. I wonder whether Stalin or Hitler believed in all this, a system that would allow them to get away with mass murder? But I digress from my childhood visit to the Good Friday service. It was a very trying, endurance test of patience. True Christians take it all very seriously though and even decorate their churches and themselves with crosses, the ultimate symbol of their Christ’s great sacrifice. The crucifixion and resurrection of Christ is even acted out in Passion plays. There was one presented by a drama company in Trafalgar Square this year. It must be weird being a tourist and taking a picture of someone realistically pretending to be suffering and dying on a cross.

Two days later, on Easter Sunday, we were back in church again for more hymns and prayers and another long sermon. But this time everything was upbeat and happy as we were celebrating Jesus’s resurrection, his cheating of death. We sang joyful songs full of optimism. Then when I got home, I was at last allowed the hit the chocolate!

So what’s this about eggs at Easter time? Surely it’s not really just about giving ourselves yet another sugar rush? As always in these festivals and traditions, a lot of symbolism is involved. The egg represents new life, because Easter always coincides with the arrival of spring. After the dreary, dead months of winter, we are all cheered up by the advent of Spring. We enjoy the appearance of snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils and tulips, bringing welcome colour to our gardens, parks and verges. We enjoy the beautiful blackthorn and cherry blossom. We like the arrival of lambs in the fields or spotting a baby rabbit. We love hearing the birdsong ( if we can hear it above the traffic noise), and seeing our feathered friends building their nests and laying their eggs. The eggs contain the new lives that give us all that hope that the world will go on for another year. Chris Packham and Michaela Strachan will be setting up their cameras so we can all witness this rebirth of the natural world on our television screens on Springwatch. Leaving all the religious stuff out of it, Easter for many, is simply a celebration of the coming of Spring. In fact it gets its name from the old English word: Eostre, the pagan goddess of Spring. As with Christmas, the Christians simply commandeered an already existing pagan festival and exploited it to increase their own popularity.

So the egg represents the hope of new life. Wearing my cynical vegetarian’s hat, I think it’s deeply ironic that many will celebrate Easter by eating slaughtered chickens, the most common and popular meat in the British cuisine. New life, new death. I wonder how KFC are commemorating Easter?

The egg, when broken open also symbolises for some the empty cave-tomb, the discovery of which told Jesus’s disciples that he had risen from the dead. Thus, because of their symbolic significance, Easter seems to be all about eggs. We eat chocolate versions of them, we decorate them, our children hunt for them, we decorate little Easter trees with colourful pretend eggs and stick them in our windows for others to see. A few years ago, a friend of mine hid a dozen Cadbury’s Cream eggs in his large garden for his grandchildren to find on Easter morning. It kept them enjoyably busy for a while. The trouble is that they only ever found 9 so there are still 3 chocolate eggs out there giving the worms an unexpected Easter treat! When my children and I visited Norwegian friends for Christmas back in the 1980s, we all painted hard boiled eggs the night before and then after the children had gone to bed , we hid them around the house and made up cryptic clues to help the young ones find them the following morning.

Since I became an adult, I have never been a great one for tradition. I resent having to put on a straight -jacket dictated to me by the rest of society. The pressure to conform has increased since the rise and rise of social media. Now we can all be the stars of our own “perfect” lives and show the world how lovely our Easter decorations are and what a happy time we are having with our wonderful, happy families. We post joyous photos or videos on Instagram or Facebook and wait for the “likes” and love emojis to come rolling in.

But, cynicism apart, if I stop to think about it, tradition is the glue that sticks our largely individualistic society together. Following a tradition help us to bond, feel part of a common society and reinforces our sense of identity. I think it’s a good thing that different generations of a family get together at festival time instead of staying in their separate boxes. I don’t really mind the extra cars and children’s screeches disrupting the normally peaceful existence of our close. It’s just a bit sad and difficult for people who don’t belong to a “happy” family however — the divorced, the widowed, the lonely. Either the family gatherings around them emphasise even more their isolation or they become the pitied relative in the corner of the room , invited because he/she is on their own. For some, it will a long day of food, drink and desultory small talk.

I think Easter is a strange remnant of a festival in modern Britain. A few go to church but many don’t . Lots of people get together with their families but others cannot. For the majority, the origins and real meaning of Easter have been lost in the mists of time. Britain now has a large Muslim minority. I wonder what they think about it all? As much as the rest of us think about Ramadan I suppose. There was shameful booing at Elland Road football stadium recently when play was stopped at dusk to enable 3 visiting muslim footballers to break their fast. Some probably Islamaphobic wag on social media suggested that Easter football matches be stopped to allow the Christian players on the field to eat their Easter eggs. His comment and the booing sadly show some people’s lack of respect for other people’s religions and festivals.

For the tens of thousands at the football stadiums Easter is about sport, and crucial promotion or relegations battles. For others Easter represents family gatherings, like a mini Christmas. For children it means chocolates, sweets and gifts. Some fly off for foreign holidays in warmer climes. Bikers like to gather together and go for a long ride in the countryside. Some use their time off work and school to go to the seaside and eat fish and chips or ice-creams. A few little traditions cling on. Some eat fish rather than meat on Good Friday and others munch into hot cross buns. There was a big controversy the other year when the supermarkets suggested leaving the cross off their cinnamon flavoured tea cakes, even though their taste wouldn’t be compromised one jot. We don’t have many traditions left in Britain but many cling on to the ones we still have even though their meanings and origins have been largely forgotten.

Yes, a lot of the meanings of the most important Christian festival are lost on many of the British public at large. Yet it is still an occasion that binds us loosely together, even if it just means saying “Happy Easter” to people in the street instead of the usual “good-day.”
Leaving England Without a Passport — a visit to Cardiff.

March 13, 2026

For my first trip out of England this year I didn’t need a passport, foreign currency or special documentation. It was quite a long journey but it didn’t begin with a shuffling security queue or an intrusive whole body scan. I know this sounds confusing, but I was leaving my country without actually leaving my country. You see, my official home country, the United Kingdom, consists of 4 separate countries rolled into one — England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. On this occasion I went on a trip from England to Wales.

Since Wales was brutally conquered in the 13th century by the Norman armies of King Edward I ( also know as the “Hammer of the Scots”), it has been forcibly chained to its larger and more powerful neighbour. For a long time it was in danger of losing all of its independence and identity. But over the centuries of subjugation the Welsh have stubbornly clung on to their culture and language. Finally in the late 20th century, significant power was devolved from Westminster to an elected Welsh Assembly in Cardiff. Welsh is now more widely spoken and taught in all schools. All signs are in Welsh as well as English. So, for Chris ( my wife) and I, we enjoyed the buzz of visiting another country without having to stray too far out of our comfort zone.

After a long, train journey from north-east England changing at Darlington and Derby, we finally crossed the England-Wales border at Chepstow, on the north shore of the Severn estuary. We tried to decipher our first Welsh signs, an impossible task. Upon leaving the station, we saw a forbidding Norman fortress, and not one, but two suspension bridges across the mighty River Severn. We travelled on through Newport and finally arrived at Cardiff Central station, part of the old Great Western Railway from London Paddington.

It was our first visit to the Welsh capital. It’s a city that was born out of the Industrial Revolution. The use of steam power created a huge demand for coal which just happened to be in plentiful supply in the south Wales valleys nearby. Iron ore was also mined and transported in large quantities. A canal, then a railway connected Merthyr Tydfil in the valleys with Cardiff on the coast. There, the landowning Bute family developed extensive dock facilities to handle the export of the “black gold.” The actual port was in Bute Town , south of the centre. The Butes and their city became immensely rich on the back of this trade. The population rose to 170,000 by the end of the 19th century and 227,000 by 1931. Cardiff was officially designated a city in 1905, and by 1913, it was the world’s top coal port, exporting 13 million tonnes of the stuff every year. However, the age of coal and even of fossil fuels in general is now coming to an end. Cardiff’s industry suffered in the 1930s Great Depression and the city and port were heavily bombed in the 2nd World War. So, for a number of reasons the city has had to reinvent itself. It has become a political, cultural, retail and sporting centre.

The old, dirty docks have been cleaned up and now, by the water, stands the modern Welsh Assembly building where one can see devolved democracy in action. Nearby, the Millennium Centre for the performing arts is a huge round building that looks like a spaceship that has come to earth. It’s made of different coloured Welsh slates ( purple, green and grey), topped by an over-arching shiny bronze roof. Above the main entrance the roof is pierced by 2 metre high, letter-shaped windows. They spell out phrases from the Welsh poet Gwyneth Lewis. They are very striking. At night they glow red. The Cardiff Bay area is a good mile’s slog on foot from the city centre. You can also catch a train or bus down there. We walked down for a look around. After visiting an interesting ( but expensive) craft gallery, we walked on to the Millennium Centre which has that magical trio of attractions — toilets, shop and cafe. Then we walked on to the waterfront which is dominated by the impressive red-brick Pierhead Building one of the few Victorian structures to survive. It’s in the French Gothic style and was put up in 1897. It has an ornate clock tower which is sometimes nicknamed the “Welsh Big Ben.”

With all these symbols of Welsh pride surrounding us, it seemed a bit perverse to visit a Norwegian church. To pile on the irony, I actually ate a Welsh rare-bit there. The church is a white, slatted wooden building with a black spire on top of it like a witch’s hat. It sits on the end of a tiny peninsula in Cardiff Bay. It was built in 1868. The design is based on a traditional Norwegian village church. Numerous Norwegians and other Scandinavians came to south Wales as seamen and traders, supporting the coal industry. Many stayed on and built churches in Cardiff, Barry, Newport and Swansea. The family of the children’s author : Roald Dahl , were amongst those who settled in the Cardiff area. Young Roald was actually baptised in the font of the same building where we enjoyed our lunch. The church has now been reconfigured as an arts centre and cafe. After its congregation dwindled because of the decline of the coal trade, the church was dismantled and then reassembled in its present picturesque location.

We had booked to see a modern dance production, Matthew Bourne’s “The Red Shoes”, at the Millennium Centre that evening but, not wanting to hang around for hours, we jumped on a bus which was just about to depart for the city centre. We had to pay £2.50 each for the privilege, as our English bus passes don’t work in Wales. The bus quickly plunged into a run-down, working -class area known as Bute Town or Tiger Bay. The singer Shirley Bassey famously came from this area along with the rugby player, Billy Boston. It is very multi-cultural and multi-racial. We saw Afghan, Indian, Chinese and Jamaican restaurants. We saw women walking around in burqas and passed a large mosque with a twisty, golden dome. A football match was shortly to begin and the streets were crowded with men, all walking in the same direction. We got stuck in a traffic jam but it was interesting looking out at the colourful street life.

From our hotel window, high up on the 17th floor, we had a spectacular view of the city centre. One of our ideas was to visit the castle which we could clearly see at the top of one of the main shopping streets. The plan was to visit the castle’s grand house, which had been originally been built in 1420 but had undergone major alterations in the 19th century to suit the fantasies of its owner, the third Marquess of Bute. He was obsessed with the Middle Ages and the whole house was remodelled as a mock-medieval, Gothic fantasy. To achieve this he employed the equally obsessed and eccentric architect, William Burgess, who apparently often walked around in medieval costume with a parrot on his shoulder. The result is an over-the-top, flamboyant fantasy which has to be seen to be believed. It’s not to everyone’s taste and I couldn’t live in it myself, but it made for a fascinating and unusual visit. The stand-out rooms such as the library, the banqueting hall and the Arab Room, are included in the price of a general tour. If you want to see the whole house, you would have to get on one of the hourly guided tours.

The house is impossible to describe. Just imagine an ornate kaleidoscope of : carvings, stained glass, marble, sandalwood, gold-leaf, mosaics, extravagant fireplaces, patterned rugs and friezes. The Marquess and his architect were both fascinated by astrology and religious symbolism, which is in plentiful supply. The banqueting hall is lined with heraldic shields and overlooked by a minstrel’s gallery. One half expected to hear the strains of Greensleeves to come floating down. The whole place is pure kitsch but, not surprisingly is the most popular part of the castle complex. We didn’t explore all the different areas so missed out inspecting the medieval keep or the Welsh military museum. ( the Firing Line). We also missed the WW2 air-raid shelter contained in a long, cold corridor within the thick castle walls. You cannot do everything. I admired the motte with the stone keep sitting on top of it and lovely daffodils decorating its green slopes. I liked the walls around the courtyard but was disappointed to find that they weren’t original or authentic. The castle had been built on the site of an earlier Roman fort and the Marquess of Bute in his wisdom had ordered Roman style walls to surround his Norman castle. Historical accuracy didn’t seem to bother him very much.

One interesting fact about the castle is that William the Conqueror’s eldest son, Robert was imprisoned there for many years until his death, aged 83. William chose Robert to succeed him as Duke of Normandy but selected his younger son Henry to follow him in the more powerful role of King of England. Because of the threat that his elder brother posed, King Henry I had Robert captured and locked up in the keep at Cardiff Castle for the rest of his life. So much for brotherly love!

To get to the castle we had to walk up one of Cardiff’s main streets, St Mary’s. The top section of it is pedestrianised. It’s full of eating and drinking establishments, plus a selection of shops. Parallel to it is another major, traffic-free shopping street, the Hayes, with all the main suspects represented. We restricted ourselves to Waterstones where I struck lucky, getting double stamps for my purchase because it was World Book Week. Between St Marys and The Hayes are several. atmospheric old arcades. We loved exploring them. One featured the oldest record shop in the country with a window display of nostalgic vinyl albums. We also spotted a colourful wool shop, an establishment selling Havana cigars and a gentleman’s felt hat shop. We wandered round a Victorian market hall. St Mary St is full of Victorian and early 20th century buildings, some of them quite impressive. Some have been put to a different use than originally intended. Banks have become bars and offices turned into restaurants. A handsome 19th century edifice on a prominent corner is now a Wetherspoons. My favourite transformation however, is the 1876 Philarmonic Hall which is now the Coyote Ugly Saloon! The whole central business area is overlooked by the Principality Stadium sitting on the banks of the River Taff. It dwarfs all the buildings around it, looking like a huge, praying mantis. It’s unusual to find a sports stadium right in the centre of the action. They are usually stuck in out- of- town locations where there is more space. It’s a pity that the Welsh rugby union team wasn’t playing a home match that weekend ( they were away in Ireland), as it would have been thrilling to hear the roar of the crowd and perhaps a rousing Welsh anthem or two.

On our second full day we walked up St Mary Street, past the castle and on into an area of stately neo-classical buildings. The Rough Guide describes it as “one of the most elegant administrative quarters in Britain.” One of these grand buildings was the venue for our second major cultural event of the weekend ( after the Modern Dance) — the Gwen John art exhibition, “Strange Beauties”, at the National Museum Cardiff. We entered via steps between huge classical columns. The outside of this magnificent building is adorned with sculpture and topped by two domes. It’s a sort of combination of the National Gallery and the Natural History Museum. Both outside and inside are impressive.

I said we went to view the Gwen John exhibition but for some people we told it was a case of Gwen who? They had never heard of her. Although a very talented painter, Gwen is not famous enough to feature in the premier division of celebrity artists. This was lucky for us as she is not yet a target for the mass tourist hordes. Miss John has largely gone under the radar. She is probably more famous for being the sister of Augustus John, her more flamboyant, artist sibling, and also for being a lover of the sculptor Auguste Rodin in France ( one of many!) Augustus recognised his sister’s great talent and predicted that in the future people would refer to him as Gwen John’s brother. Several friends of ours have recently rushed down to London to see the block-buster Turner- Constable exhibition at Tate Britain. I’m sure it is fantastic but I felt a certain satisfaction that we had travelled to one of Britain’s other capitals to see a less famous but still very talented artist. We were rewarded by being able to enjoy the drawings and paintings without fighting through jostling crowds.

It was a quiet, calm, soothing experience viewing Gwen’s quiet, calm, soothing pictures. There were only a sprinkling of other visitors. She painted three-quarter length portraits and peaceful interiors with a restricted palette. Looking at them and reading about her life was an interesting and reflective experience. Gwen and Augustus were born in Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire and later moved to Tenby after the early death of their mother. They both went to the pioneering Slade School of Art in London. Gwen’s final move was to France where she had an apartment and studio in Montparnasse before moving to the Parisian suburb of Meudon. After the obligatory visits to the museum shop and cafe, we viewed the permanent collection which includes some excellent Impressionist and Post Impressionist paintings including Monet, Sisley, Cezanne, Picasso, Van Gogh and a dazzling pair of Renoirs.

Our final afternoon was spent strolling around the University area with it’s grand buildings. Many of them were formerly owned by the Marquess of Bute but he cleared off when the coal industry was nationalised in the late 1940s and donated his castle, statement buildings and huge chunks of land to the city. The University has taken over many of them now. We strolled through beautiful Bute Park created from his lordship’s estate. Amongst the stately trees we admired carpets of daffodils and tete a tetes and a row of lovely red peonies. We spotted a tree creeper, a wren and 2 jays, hopping about in the undergrowth. The river runs through the park and is crossed by pictureque bridges. It has a visitor’s centre, a couple of cafes and a plant sale shop. Apparently the pots of primulas were very cheap but we couldn’t carry them home on the train. Upon leaving the park we came across the animal wall — another of Bute’s fantasies. At this point the castle wall is decorated with stone figures of animals and birds. We spotted a seal, a bear, a pelican and an ant-eater, amongst others. The latter was originally installed without its long nose, which was only added when the sculptures were restored. Apparently many of the children of Cardiff believed that the creatures from the animal wall came alive and wandered the streets at night. It’s a nice story.

Early on Monday morning we caught a train out of Cardiff for our journey back to the north of England. Again there were no security queues, baggage scans or passport checks. It had been an interesting and stimulating weekend in the Welsh capital and I’m glad we took the trouble to travel out of England to visit another part of the United Kingdom, beating many of the crowds on a road ( or rail) less travelled.
Welsh Rare-bits.

March 10, 2026

It was purely coincidence that in the very week of St David’s Day and just when the verges were starting to burst with golden daffodils, my wife Chris, and I went to Wales. We may even have eaten leeks for one of our main meals that week as well. We went on a city break to Cardiff, Wales’s capital city on its south coast. It was a long journey from the north east of England to the land of the Red Dragon. We finally entered our sister country at Chepstow, spotting the big, forbidding castle guarding the border. ( One of many in Wales). Our train quickly sped along the south Wales coast, passing through the city of Newport and then finally reaching the capital.

Considering it’s officially part of Great Britain ( and the United Kingdom), I have ventured into Wales quite rarely in my life. Perhaps, in hunting down more exotic locations, I have been guilty of taking the Principality for granted. Here are some of the rare bits of my life that I have spent amongst the Welsh, prior to this recent excursion.

CHILDHOOD HOLIDAYS and EARLIEST MEMORY.

When I was a little child growing up in Derbyshire, we took the trains to enjoy traditional seaside holidays in North Wales. We vacationed in resorts such as Colwyn Bay, Rhyl and Llandudno. In fact my earliest memory is of falling into a boating lake in a park in Colwyn Bay. I was about 3 or 4. I had been sailing my toy yacht on the little lake, when I tripped and plunged into the water. I still remember being underwater and seeing the shimmering reflection of my dad reaching down to pull me out — gasping and dripping. I still remember my mum’s classic exclamation: ” Oh look — he’s still got his cap on!”

On another Welsh holiday we took a tram up to the top of the Great Orme, the big, round hill overlooking Llandudno. My sister and I were treated to huge, knicker-bocker glory ice-creams in tall, fancy glasses. Apparently the owner of the cafe said that if we could eat them all up we would get another one each for free. We made valiant attempts but ultimately failed.

FREEZING COLD HONEYMOON.

Back in 1970, I actually went to Wales for a honeymoon with my first wife, A. We were poor students and the idea was to hitch- hike from Manchester where we were studying, to Conwy in North Wales. I was attracted by its impressive castle, medieval town walls, the picturesque location on the coast, and an historical bridge built by the famous road builder, Thomas Telford. It was on his road from London to Holyhead where boats could be boarded to Ireland. How can you tell I was a history student? A’s mum kindly gave us £50 which would cover our accommodation for 2 or 3 nights. Money went a lot further, back in those days. We didn’t have enough to cover transport though, so decided to stand by the side of the road and stick our thumbs out. It was early April. All went well at first but then we got stuck for ages on a hill in North Wales. To make matters worse it started to snow. In fact we endured a small blizzard. It wasn’t the romantic getaway that many imagine for their honeymoons. We finally got a lift from a kind lorry driver but arrived in Conwy looking like 2 half-melted snowmen.

We were cold and unfortunately experienced an extremely frosty reception from the land-ladies of Conwy. We hadn’t booked ahead and just looked for the “Vacancies” signs in the guest house windows. ( no internet in those days and we were even shy about using the telephone.) However, as soon as they saw 2 soaking beatniks, with long shaggy hair, duffel coats and rucksacks, the first 3 owners decided they didn’t have any vacancies afterall! We eventually found a place but it had no guest lounge and our bedroom was unheated and unwelcoming. We never felt comfortable or welcome in Conwy and quickly moved on to the more carefree, “kiss me quick” resort of Llandudno, a few miles away.

Llandudno was much more tourist -friendly and we got a warmer reception there. We found a well-heated, welcoming hostelry where we stayed for a couple of days and nights. Unfortunately, it was to be my first encounter with slippery, shiny nylon sheets. ( Can those readers of a certain age remember Brentford Nylons?) They were all the rage in those days. Inevitably I was just dropping off when I slid off the mattress and ended up on the floor! Still we had a pleasant couple of days there and even had enough pennies left to catch the train back all the way to Manchester.

CHOIR FESTIVAL.

Wales is famous for its choirs. Being a chorister has become a big part of my life and that is what led me to another encounter with Wales. In the second decade of the 21st century I was part of a community choir in Whitby, North Yorkshire. Every year we took part in a big street choir festival at various different location across the country. Inevitably , considering its reputation, one year we ended up in Wales. We sang in a big event in Aberystwyth on the west coast, halfway up Cardigan Bay. Chris and I drove through the mountains of mid-Wales enjoying lovely scenery and spotting loads of red kites soaring on the thermals high above us. I think they are the national bird of Wales. After all the singing in the streets and at the University of Wales, we headed north, visiting dramatic castles at Harlech and Caernarfon and going up Mt Snowdon on a quaint little steam train. The clouds magically parted when we got to the summit and we were treated to a magnificent view of Wales’s highest mountain range. I made a triumphant return to Conwy with my second wife. We visited the castle, walked the walls and explored the beautiful Bodnant gardens just south of the town. We took the precaution of staying in Llandudno though where we ascended the Great Orme , walked the pier and generally had a great time.

OUTWOOD BOUND.

A few years after the choir jaunt I was back on one of my occasional visits to Wales, visiting an outwood- bound centre in Pembrokeshire with my school. We had a bunch of 12 and 13 year olds. I remember getting very muddy, having a fab time with the kids but chickening out of abseiling down a frightening looking cliff face. It was a very emotional trip as it was the last one before my school on the west side of Newcastle, closed.

So there you have it — the sum total of my experiences in Wales before my recent city break in Cardiff. In the context of my longish life they are very rare bits indeed, if you’ll excuse the pun. Once in Cardiff one of my priorities was to have cheese on toast, know in posh circles as Welsh rarebit. We also planned to see an exciting modern dance performance at the Millennium Centre down on Cardiff Bay and view a fascinating art exhibition at the National Museum of Wales. Both were memorable experiences. But that’s another story.
The Slowly Closing Window.

January 23, 2026

I lost my glasses today. It’s becoming a more regular occurrence. My wife, Chris, often has the same problem. Forgetfulness is a sign of that dreaded phenomenon: ageing. It’s something that happens to us all sooner or later. I looked everywhere for them but to no avail. So I dug out my spare pair and remembered my late mum’s sound advice — if you can’t find something, stop looking and eventually it will find you. It worked, as half an hour later I found them under a newspaper which I had been using my glasses to read. The spares have now been carefully secreted back in the 3rd kitchen drawer down. Hot tip — always store important items in the same place, so the habit of looking there becomes ingrained.

So this is yet another blog about ageing. Groan! Groan! All readers under 60 can now click off. My excuse for writing about it is — yes, you’ve guessed it — I am irrevocably getting older. They say you should write about what you know. I have reached my mid 70s. I’ve got to the age where I like telling people how old I am, so they can hopefully stroke my ego and say “Well, you don’t look it.” I always hang back when paying at the barber’s to see if he/she is going to charge me the pensioner’s price or the one for “normal” people. Once, last year, one of them asked “You’re not 65 are you?” “No”, I replied, “I’m not….. I’m 75!” Boom Boom! So now you know — I’m old enough to remember Basil Brush. ( For the uninitiated, that irritatingly smug, little fox originally graced our screens back in the 1960s)

I’ve just returned from my monthly meet up with 2 former teaching colleagues who have now developed into long term friends. It’s a sort of “Last of the Summer Wine” scenario. ( another blast from the past.) We go for a walk, chew the cud, try to solve all the problems of the world, then enjoy a meal together. We take it in turns to host. Each meet-up now inevitably starts with an “organ recital” as one of my friends, Alex, joked. We compare illnesses and ailments of our own and of those around us. We are all in our 8th decade so have plenty to talk about, although compared to many of our generation, we are still pretty fit and healthy. Our latest discussion included: hearing aids, prostates, colonoscopies, cystoscopies, doctors, nurses, dentists, vaccinations, opticians and hospital visits. Health usually trumps the weather as our generation’s favourite topic of conversation. Sometimes I think of myself as a vintage car, parked in a quiet cul-de-sac, viewing all the sleek new hybrids, Teslas and automatics that have come along to replace me.

It’s worrying that others of our age group have already fallen by the wayside. Just recently we lost the Teesside pop/rock singer Chris Rea, aged 74 and Bob Weir, original member of the hallowed Grateful Dead, aged only 78. David Bowie didn’t even make it to 70 although, to be fair, he did live life in a very fast lane. Every time somebody famous from my generation passes away, it makes me sit up and become aware of my own mortality. Then I get into a slight panic as I have: so many things I still want to do, so many books on my shelves yet to read, so much music to enjoy, so many places in the world left to visit. With the passing of the years, I know the number of opportunities to do exciting and interesting stuff are gradually dwindling. It’s like a slowly closing window.

I love travelling to new destinations, especially abroad. It’s one of my life-long passions. Since retirement in 2006 I have had the time and since my occupational pension was joined by the state pension, I have had the money to go on plenty of exciting and fascinating trips. The 3rd requirement to feed one’s wanderlust is good health which I still luckily have. So the opportunity to have great adventures is still there and I have plenty of plans in the pipeline. This year I plan to visit Belgium, Italy (where Chris has close family), Denmark, Sweden and Egypt. One thing missing from these plans however is a long haul trip. My days of back packing through south -east Asia or trecking the Inca trail to Machu Picchu in Peru are sadly over. Just for the record I did the former but never got round to doing the latter. Now it’s probably too late. The energy levels are not what they were and Chris and I no longer want to rough it or endure the strain and discomfort of a long flight. Also, something I never anticipated when I was younger — the anxiety levels are starting to rise, leading to the vetoing of holidays that offer unknowns and potential complications. We now think of the problems more than the opportunities. We had an absolutely fabulous trip to Japan just over 2 years ago, the best holiday we have ever had. However any thought of returning has now been overwhelmed by the “what ifs.” What if one of us is ill? What if we get robbed or scammed? What if we lose our passports? What if we get too tired to complete the itinerary? What if we miss one of our flights? After several discussions, it has been “officially” agreed that we are not going back this year and, given our age, it looks like we never will. If Dr Who lent us his Tardis we would go like a shot. But we cannot face the extremely long, debilitating journey, the change of time zones and subsequent disruption of our body clocks, the alien food which might play havoc with our tummies, or the constant stress of catching trains, planes and buses and worrying whether we are going to make connections. I told you — we have become big time worriers! Thus we have chosen the safer and easier option of European city breaks, just a few hours away.

Some people circumvent the problems and worries of finding their way round a strange country by going on an all-in escorted tour. It seems to be the easiest and most obvious option. But now that we have reached a certain age, Chris and I find it a strain to follow someone else’s itinerary, often involving early starts and constantly moving on. On a recent escorted tour in Turkey, excellent as it was, we resented being told when to get up, when to eat breakfast, where we were going to visit and how long we were allowed to stay. We had ceded our independence and control in exchange for peace of mind. It’s a difficult equation to balance.

Dropping energy levels is another factor that has closed our window of opportunity just a little bit more. However, I don’t want this to turn into a sob, sob story. We still hopefully have plenty of exciting experiences ahead of us even though they will be gradually nearer and nearer to home.

Ageing is just another chapter in life that we have to get on and deal with. I am lucky that I have not yet succumbed to any serious illnesses. I would like to think that I would make the most of what life has to offer for as long as I can. Thus far it has thrown up various problems but none that are unsurmountable. As Woody Allan said in “Annie Hall” ( one of my favourite films): “A problem is an opportunity in disguise.” I used that quote in a job interview once, and got the job! Afterall, life often involves problem solving. So now I am looking forward to visiting Scandinavia instead of the Far East. I read with the aid of prescription glasses. I put my National Health hearing- aids in when I switch on the telly or meet up with people for conversation. I go for 5 mile walks in the countryside instead of 10. I go to bed earlier and often have a little lie in. I keep taking the tablets. ( don’t worry – nothing serious.) And I remember to put my glasses in the third kitchen drawer down. ( unless I mislay them first.)
Crimbo Limbo.

December 31, 2025

I’m writing this at that strange time of the year — the week between Christmas and New Year. Some have dubbed it “Twixmas” while others have cornily called it “Crimbo Limbo”. Half of the population is desperately clinging on to the so called festive season, while the other half is keen to get back to normal. The Christmas lights are still twinkling but the excitement generated by gatherings of family and friends and present swapping has largely evaporated. Peoples’ visitors have either gone home or they are forlornly trudging around the streets with them trying to find something to do with many of the cafes, museums, libraries and galleries and some of the shops still closed for the holiday.

It was a long, long build up to the “big day” this year. ( 2025.) When Chris, my wife, and I landed back in Manchester after a mid-November overseas holiday, Christmas was unbelievably already in full swing. Christmas lights decorated the streets and squares, big store entrances were flanked by giant fir trees, festive markets were doing brisk business, and it was all being played out to a background chorus of familiar carols and seasonal songs. Shoppers scurried around with bulging bags of presents and rolls of wrapping paper. I had to pinch myself in disbelief. It was only halfway through November, and apparently it had already been going on for a week before we got back. We had been visiting a Muslim country ( Turkiye) so all this frenetic festive activity gave us a strong dose of reverse culture shock. Much of it was driven by out -and- out commercialism of course but many people seemed to be throwing themselves enthusiastically into the game. All this and Mary, Joseph and the donkey had probably not even set off yet!

And so we entered the fray — buying presents, writing and posting cards ( expensive!), putting up our lights and the obligatory, baubled tree, meeting up with friends and family, and going to a whole stream of pre-Christmas meals until our stomachs were begging us for respite. Yes, we joined in the annual madness but drew the line at Christmas jumpers. Primark wasn’t going to get our custom. The supermarkets suddenly became full of sprouts, towering mountains of Quality Street and lakes of beer and prosecco. I searched my brain and couldn’t recall any scenes of Mary and Joseph getting tipsy with the shepherds or chomping chocolates with the 3 wise men.

As we got into December it seemed to be compulsory to mention “Christmas” in every second sentence. It replaced the weather as the topic of conversation that glued our disparate society together. Everyone wanted to know what I was doing for Christmas even though nobody cared what I was doing on any other day of the year. The usual questions popped into conversations — Are you ready yet? Are they coming to you or are you going to them? How many will be sitting round your table? ( predictably pulling crackers, wearing paper hats and reading corny jokes on the big day.) Much of this was driven, as always by the media but in recent years this has been reinforced by constant posts on social media portraying people’s “perfect” Christmas celebrations. The excitement built up to a frenzy and I knew things were at last about to kick off when Dave’s illuminated nodding reindeer appeared on next door’s lawn.

Well for me it was the usual enormous anti-climax I’m sorry to say. No single day could live up to that massively over the top build up. I am not a child anymore; my own children have all left home; I am an agnostic so don’t go to church; I am a vegetarian so don’t indulge in turkey or goose. I am also a former Methodist so don’t really have much of a thing for alcohol. I am pre-diabetic so I cannot eat loads of chocolates, cakes or puddings. I try not to go on about it as if you don’t join in all the traditions, people call you “Scrooge”, “spoil sport” and other unflattering names. I blame Charles Dickens.

And so it is now more or less over for another year but we are still in the limbo period bookended by the two bank holidays. For me this is a time for reflection. I think of all my past Christmases at different stages of my life. ( and I don’t need a Dickensian ghost to remind me.) As a child I remember the excitement of waking up on Christmas morning and seeing a pillow slip bulging with gifts at the bottom of my bed. ( we didn’t do stockings in our house.) Santa had been! I could usually rely on getting some new Dinky toys ( toy cars) for the garage my dad had made for me, a Rupert the Bear annual and at least 2 selection boxes, from each of my lovely grandmas. Later Rupert the Bear was replaced by Billy the Kid albums about the Wild West. It’s funny how people thought that reading about a cold-blooded murderer was deemed appropriate for the season of peace and goodwill to all men.

Of course, being in a religious family, Christmas Day also involved an extra visit to church to listen to all the familiar bible readings which we could almost recite by heart and sing the favourite carols that we wrapped around us like comfy blankets. The last verse of Oh Come all Ye Faithful was always sung with extra gusto — ” Yay Lord, we greet thee, on this happy morning.” We all felt that strong sense of belonging and togetherness. Another highlight was when my sister and I got silver coins pushed into our hands by kind members of the congregation. It was usually half a crown ( 2 shillings and 6 pence) which was a lot of money in those pre-decimalisation days. Then it was back for the special Christmas day feast which for us was pork and all the trimmings — carrots, parsnips, sprouts, mashed and roast potatoes, apple sauce, stuffing and a rich, thick gravy. We could not afford turkey, goose or chicken. In those days ( 1950s and 60s) , before the days of factory farming, a chicken was still regarded as a special, luxury treat to eat. Next, like everybody else we had Christmas pudding and white, brandy sauce. We were big supporters of tradition and so ate what most people in the country were eating. Later, after the Queen’s Speech on telly at 3pm, we had a late, light tea, the highlight of which was Christmas fruit cake topped with marzipan and icing. I always rushed through my tea as I wanted to watch the pantomime on TV. As I entered my teens and became more sexually aware, the big attraction of the panto was Prince Charming ( or equivalent) who was always an attractive young woman with long, shapely legs and stiletto heels. She was much more attention- grabbing than soppy Cinderella in her long dress. It was an early example of gender bending, standing alongside the likes of Widow Twanky, who was (is) always a man in drag. Yes I enjoyed Christmas Day as a child and young teen. It had many highlights.

However, everything changed in 1967 when I was 17 years old. My innocence was shattered. After his retirement from the coal mine, my paternal grandad ran a small- holding consisting of pigs and chickens. That Christmas he wrung a chicken’s neck in front of me and gave it to us for our Christmas dinner as a special “treat.” My dad later invited me to help him pluck the poor lifeless thing and remove its giblets. I refused to touch it and then announced I wasn’t going to eat it either. It was my Saul on the road to Damascus moment and turned me into a lifelong vegetarian . A friend gave up meat with me after reading about the horrendous goings on in abattoirs, and we took the life changing decision together. Vegetarianism and veganism were much less common in those days and most veggies were widely mocked as cranks. On the “big” day we just went out tramping around the streets and into a local park. We got really cold. In an act of kindness and support which I’ll never forget, my sister, who I never really got on with, pushed a tupperware container of vegetables in cheese sauce into my hand, along with a spoon to eat it. I was really moved.

Once I left home the straight jacket of tradition was further loosened. The first Christmas dinner I ate with my new wife, at the age of 20, consisted of egg and chips! We were sick of conforming! Once we had our own children some of the traditions crept back and we made more of an effort to make the day special for our family. But the vegetarian fayre remained a fixture. In many ways we were a typical family enjoying the joys of Christmas. But all good things sadly have to come to an end. For reasons not to be disclosed here, divorce tragically came our way and the family was blown apart. My wife and I split up and I volunteered to be the one to leave the home and be an outsider in my own family. It was very tough, and for some reason, it was even tougher emotionally at Christmas.

Of course I got invited to spend much of the day with my ex-wife and 3 children but it wasn’t the same. I woke up alone instead of being woken by squeals of delight from the children. The family in turn had to wait for me to arrive before they could open their presents. It was as if I was delivering myself to the children as an extra Christmas present. The day passed pleasantly enough as we played the game of happy families complete with crackers, funny hats etc, but there came a time when I had to leave. I lived 5 miles away and had to cycle back to my new home as I didn’t own a car and there was no bus service. I still distinctly remember the gut wrenching feeling when the door closed and I was standing alone on the dark path. For many, Christmas is all about being with one’s loved ones but if one is excluded from the family for whatever reason, then every positive becomes a negative. It’s the flip side of the coin.

I have never forgotten that feeling of being on the outside looking in. Everytime I passed scenes of families enjoying themselves in that holiday period, it rubbed salt into my wounds. Divorce is not the only reason why families split up and the idealised version of Christmas becomes impossible. Bereavement is another major factor, especially as we get older. I have joined various Facebook groups, one being “Born in the 40s, Grew up in the 50s.” It’s usually a place where nostalgic memories are shared by older people like yours truly. I feel lucky because I have now remarried and enjoy lovely quiet Christmases with my wife. ( our children and grandchildren live away.) But I was shocked this year to read 2 posts that didn’t fit the normal social media pattern of trying to show how wonderful one’s life is. Both said ” Christmas was sh-t. I was lonely and miserable.” Both were from men . Had they been divorced or bereaved or had they never hitched up with anybody in the first place? Several of my friends have sadly died over the past few years, and as I wrote my cards to their widows , I couldn’t help wondering what type of Christmas they would now have. They say the loneliest place to be is in the middle of a crowd. Similarly, it must be really difficult to be suffering feelings of loss and unhappiness at a time when the rest of society is being programmed to be merry and happy. “Tis the season to be jolly” the carol goes, but not if you’re unwillingly on your own.

So, as I said, my Crimbo Limbo has turned into a time for refection and of trying to empathise with others who are less fortunate than myself. In this cold, wintry weather for instance I’m glad to have a warm, dry home and that I am not trying to sleep in a freezing shop doorway. Obviously, one cannot help thinking of victims of war, persecution, famine and disease. Then there are the people who are ill and the carers who are having to look after them. My heart goes out to all the suffering people in the world and I do my best to support the charities that try to help them. Soon the lights and decorations will come down, the New Year fireworks will have fizzled out and the reality of normal life will return. I will think of the people dragging themselves back in to work after the holiday, knowing that I now have the luxury and privilege of being retired from the daily grind. The only trouble is, I am getting older and every year I have more and more memories to look back on during this strange quiet period between Christmas and New Year. I hope you all had a merry Christmas and I wish you all a very happy and prosperous New Year.
Last Days in Turkiye — A Long Journey and a Mystical Surprise.

November 29, 2025

It was the last 2 days of our Turkish tour, travelling with a bunch of interesting people led by our indomitable guide, Abdullah. Our tour group was not only interesting and sociable — 3 of them had become overnight heroes. An Indonesian tourist had suddenly arrested in the hotel restaurant the evening before, and the heroic trio, 2 men and a woman, had worked as a team to perform CPR on the poor guy. They did this for a full 20 minutes until the ambulance finally arrived. We heard later that the gentleman had pulled through and had had stents put in. Chris and I missed the drama as we had decided to have an early night to prepare for our long coach journey the next day but we learnt all about it at breakfast.

So it was goodbye to Cappadocia, the land of surreal landscapes, troglodyte villages and medieval, frescoed rock churches. It was goodbye to the colourful armada of hot-air balloons that were rising into the pink, dawn sky as we drove off. Our group of 40 ( plus guide and driver) settled down for the lengthy 330+ journey back to the Mediterranean coast at Antalya. We had seen some incredible sights but I guessed that the highlights of the trip were now all behind us. No journey in a foreign land is a waste of time however. This one was to throw up a couple of fascinating surprises.

The first surprise came only about 40 minutes in. We pulled into a roadside services that had been created out of an old, medieval caravanserai or desert inn. We were back on the route of the Silk Road from China, through central Asia to the eastern Mediterranean. Curiously, Abdullah said we must stand still and stop talking in 20 minutes time at 9.05 am precisely. We would then depart at 9.06. We were bemused and wondered what was happening. It turned out that it was the anniversary of Kemel Ataturk’s death in November, 1938 at the age of 57. His last breath was taken at 9.05am on the 10th. Ataturk was the much revered founder of modern Turkey in the early 1920s. So November 10th is a Turkish version of Remembrance Day. Coincidentally, the British Remembrance Day is just 24 hours later on the 11th. It was only now that I noticed that all the buildings were festooned with the red and white Turkish flag — a crescent moon cradling a single star. Many buildings also had large scale photos of the great man himself. So we stood to attention and bowed our heads at the appointed time and then were off again, driving across a featureless, flat plateau towards the city of Konya.

I had imagined Konya as an historical place full of ancient Ottoman buildings, evocative bazaars and colourful markets. However, as we approached, all we could see was a vast industrial estate, ranks of apartment and office blocks, busy roads and a modern tramway. It was a bit of a shock — the gap between expectation and reality. However, we were not to be disappointed, as soon we were gazing at one of Turkiye’s most celebrated religious sanctuaries — the original home of the Whirling Dervishes. It was worth the journey. Before I describe our memorable visit, some explanation is required.

Konya is a major place of pilgrimage in the Muslim world and special for all pious Turks because it was the adopted home of Jalal al Din Rumi. In Turkiye he is better known as the Mevlana or Our Master. Rumi or the Mevlana lived in the 13th century and was a poet, philosopher and mystic. His ideas led to a new and important strand of Islam, called Sufism, being formed. It’s a religion based on mysticism and centred on a ritual performed by the “Whirling Dervishes.” We had seen a performance by a group of Dervishes back in Cappadocia. It had been stressed to us that this was not a tourist entertainment but a genuine spiritual ceremony with the aim of uniting with God ( Allah.) There was to be no applause and no photos, except at the end when they came back for a brief curtain call. There were 5 men doing the spinning or whirling, another older guy who was a sort of master of ceremonies and 4 musicians who also sang . The whole ceremony lasted for 45 minutes.

The idea is that just about everything in the natural world is cyclical. For example, the rotation of the earth, the seasons, the water-cycle or the circulation of blood round the body. The aim of the Dervish ceremony is for the people involved to escape their earth- bound status, and become part of nature by spinning around in a circle. This would open them up to go on a spiritual journey towards God. At first they wore dark, closed cloaks and tall, dark, plant-pot like hats. These represent the earthly tomb that man’s ego is trapped in. Once the hats and cloaks are removed and they start to spin around, their white skirts fan out and allows them to escape their ego and be spiritually born again. At first the Dervishes have their arms closed tightly across their chests, but as they whirl, their arms open up. The right hand points up to God, while the left points down to the earthly shackles that have been left behind. That’s the theory anyway. It was very interesting and quite moving. The effect was lessened somewhat however when we saw one of them in the car park afterwards, now wearing his jeans and football shirt, checking his mobile and getting into a big, flashy car.

Anyway, here we were in Konya, where it had all started 1200 years ago. We were about to visit the museum and mosque that has been created around the Mevlana’s tomb. It was his mausoleum. Soon the focus of both pilgrims and tourists came into spectacular view. In front of us was a huge mosque- like building with 2 large domes, a tall minaret, a dozen smaller domes that sprouted along the roof-top like mushrooms and, most unusual of all a tall, turquoise, fluted tower. Upon closer inspection the tower was decorated with a band of blue and gold Arabic calligraphy. The Mevlana’s ornate tomb sits directly below this tower. The building was originally the first HQ or Lodge of the Dervish sect. It was started a year after the Mevlana’s death in 1273. More grand buildings were added by Sultans in the 15th and 16th centuries. The whole complex is surrounded by rose gardens. It stopped being a religious centre in the 1920s when Ataturk was establishing modern Turkey as a secular state.

We walked round the side the museum and into a large courtyard. Crowds of visitors were swirling around. In the middle was a place where worshippers were doing their ablutions. (cleansing themselves with water.) Round the side were the cells where the dervishes had prayed — now turned into an exhibition explaining sufism. To enter the building we had to put plastic covers over our shoes. The place was heaving. Above us were the domes, highly decorated with geometric patterns and fancy calligraphy. To our right were the elaborate tombs of Rumi, his father and his closest disciples. Each tomb was topped by a small wooden pole round which rich material was wrapped to create a kind of turban. The one on Rumi’s tomb was a deep turquoise green. This turban symbolises Rumi’s spiritual authority. The star tomb was naturally the Mevlana’s or Rumi as we know him in the west. It had scores of pilgrims, men, women and children, praying in front of it. Some even had tears in their eyes. Nobody worried about us tourists wandering around in the midst of all this religious fervour with our jaws dropping, as Sufism preaches that non-believers should be treated with respect.

Rumi’s tomb and its surroundings are exquisitely beautiful. The tomb area is supported by 3 ornate columns with archways in between. The walls have elaborate embellishments representing paradise. Broad pink, blue and green bands are adorned with golden Arabic script. The raised tomb itself has beaten gold ornaments inside and is covered with vitrified tiles on the outside. The sarcophagus is draped with a beautiful gold-embellished veil. It is topped with the already mentioned green turban. In front of it is a silver cage on which verses from the Koran are carved. The whole scene, with the worshippers and the richly decorated tomb was quite overwhelming. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and above us were the beautifully decorated domes. It’s difficult to describe how wonderful it all was. It felt as if I was experiencing a part of the real Turkish life and that I wasn’t just in a tourist trap. A number of grand halls contained historical and religious artifacts and at the end we briefly peeped into women’s and men’s prayer rooms, showing that it is still an active place of worship.

The Rumi Museum and mausoleum in Konya was definitely one of the highlights of the whole trip for me. We eventually walked back to the coach and continued on our journey. We travelled on, eventually reaching the impressive Taurus Mountains. As soon as we reached the other side and descended on to the coast, we ended up in Antalya’s teatime rush hour. Our compensation was to witness a magnificent blood red sunset over the dark, distant mountain peaks. Then it was a late meal at the hotel, when we could swap notes with others in the group, before we finally hit the sack.

Our last day was spent in Antalya first of all visiting a jewellery workshop and then a leather outfit. The talks and demonstrations were interesting but the hard sell at the end wasn’t welcome for most of the group. We worked out that we were being dragged along to these places because they paid the tour company to deliver us there and thus subsidised the holiday that we had all been attracted to by the bargain price. Finally we were set free in the old town and harbour for 3 hours but as we were tired and were nervous of getting lost Chris and I just had a little potter around a small, defined area and shared a nice meal with another couple whom we had teamed up with. The bit we saw of Antalya was pretty tacky and commercialised but I’m sure there would be some interesting parts to discover if we had had more time and energy. For instance, the Rough Guide says the Archaeological Museum there is outstanding. Maybe next time , if we go there on an independent trip.

We left early next morning for our flight back to rainy Manchester. We were hoping for a quiet, smooth departure but our luggage got lost and we spent a tense, uncomfortable half hour in the departures lounge waiting to be reunited with it, as we eventually were. It had been a great trip overall, albeit tiring and hectic because of the sights and experiences that had been packed in to just 6 whirlwind days. We learnt a lot, saw a lot, met lots of interesting people, had a few disappointments but enjoyed many, memorable highlights. One last thrill was seeing the Swiss Alps as we flew over the entire length of Europe back to the UK. Now it was time to get back to reality and catch up on sleep. The Premier Inn’s bed in Manchester was extremely comfortable!
CAPPADOCIA — Experience of a Lifetime?

November 26, 2025

After a long coach journey from Antalya ( Turkiye), we had finally made it to Cappadocia, the land of a thousand tourist dreams. According to AI its the Turkish land of unique “fairy chimney” rock formations, cave dwellings and underground cities. It sounds like a veritable heaven for today’s armies of camera clicking Instagrammers. I had been thinking of going there for many years but had never got round to committing. But now, at last, thanks to a bargain priced tour , my wife, Chris and I had finally made it.

We had travelled into the area through mountains and then across a flat, featureless plateau. We had arrived after dark ( it was November), so we would have to wait until morning to see the famous landscape. Some have described it as like being on the surface of the moon or visiting an alien planet. We all got ready to channel our inner Captain Kirks.

However in the morning, before we even got to see the weird and wonderful rocks, we were treated to another spectacle. As the sun slowly rose, hundreds of multi-coloured hot air balloons gently took to the air. It was an incredible sight and we even delayed breakfast in order to stand and gawp at it.

Hot air ballooning over the lunar landscape of Cappadocia is a top tourist draw. Our guide Abdullah was very keen for us to give it a go. He said not to go ballooning would be like visiting Paris and not going up the Eiffel Tower or going to Egypt and not seeing the Pyramids. He warned us that if we didn’t go on a sunrise balloon ride we would regret it for the rest of our lives. I think he was on commission! (He’d obviously not been there when Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band had played for over over 4 hours at St James’s Park, Newcastle in 1985 as part of their “Born in the USA” tour.) I don’t like being told what I should do but the real reason that Chris and I didn’t go for it was because we are very nervous of heights. Going up Blackpool Tower as a teenager is still one of the scariest things I’ve done in my life. That’s why we decided to forego the trip of a lifetime and stay earth bound. Lesser reasons were the £150 per person fee and having to get up in the middle of our sleep to catch the glorious glows of the sunrise. We opted for a much needed lie in and a healthier bank balance. We were in a small minority though. About 33 of our group of 40 signed up. One lady even told us that the hot air balloon ride was the only reason she had come on the trip.

The experience of a lifetime for the 33 had to wait however, until the second morning of our stay in Cappadocia. Earlier strong winds had caused a backlog of people wanting to fly. In the meantime, we had the relatively mundane task of touring the area by coach and on foot. Even without the adrenaline rush of taking to the air, I still found it a fascinating and thrilling day.

Cappadocia is an area in the south- central part of Anatolia, in the Asian part of Turkiye. It used to be so remote that persecuted Christians travelled there to hide out during the Arab and Turkish invasions of the 7th to the 11th centuries AD. Now it has become a hugely popular magnet for tourists who flock there from all over the world. It is one of the jewels in Turkiye’s tourist crown.

The strange, highly photogenic landscape was created by the eruptions of 3 volcanoes, now extinct. The lava set into very hard Basalt but at the same time, their ash was compressed and solidified into a softer rock known as “tuff.” Water and wind action has weathered these tuff formations into fantastical shapes. Thus now there are : table mountains, canyon like valleys, whole hillsides of cone-shaped rocks ( My Whippy would have been proud of them), and weird pillars of sculpted soft rock topped with mushroom-like slabs of darker basalt. These eye-catching forests of pillars have been dubbed “fairy chimneys” by the tourist trade, although to many, their phallic shape is what first comes to mind. One area is called “Love Valley” and I don’t think the namers were thinking of fairies or mushrooms.

The refugee Christian communities found the tuff rock very malleable. In other words it was tuff but not tough. They carved out houses and churches, not to mention whole sub-terranean cities. It was a full scale, troglodyte community.

We set off for “Love Valley” after breakfast. It’s a deep canyon and is full of fairy chimneys, the phallic-shaped rocks that some have thought of as fertility symbols. Hence it has been given its “Love” title. The sight of all the fairy chimneys is indeed startling. They seem so unreal They appear in eye-catching clusters and every one is unique and constantly changing because of the way it is being weathered by the elements. As soon as the coach parked, I scampered off, trying to get my own photos of the spectacle. Unfortunately the position of the rising sun hampered my attempts to get a clear cut picture, and pesky hot-air balloons kept descending and blocking the view of some of the most picturesque clusters. I had to duck and dive to get a few half-decent shots. Despite everything though, it was a wondrous sight to take in.

The tourist trade knows this once remote rock-scape is now a massive draw , and it has exploited it to the full. On the edge of the canyon are car parks, refreshment stalls and souvenir hawkers. One can sit on a pony, a horse or a dromedary camel to have a selfie taken. The presence of the horse is very appropriate as Cappadocia is Hittite or ancient Persian for “the land of the beautiful horses.” Of course you can pop in and out of Love Valley in a hot air balloon. The most tacky sight in my opinion was of large love hearts, festooned with plastic flowers and ribbons, where one can sit for that “romantic” souvenir photo. Obviously , the latter gimmick is playing on the modern name for this unique valley. Mass tourism and commercialisation is doing its best to spoil a natural phenomenon .

After our alloted time we all piled on the coach, gulped down some water as it was getting hot, and drove on to the next place on our Cappadocian tourist trail. It was called Goreme and is one of the few remaining settlements where rock cut churches and fairy chimneys are still inhabited. It has an atmospheric honeycomb of cave dwellings etched into a steep hillside. We went into one multi-storied rock house which was open to tourists. It was (is) very tall and divided into several floors connected by steep, narrow ladders. Each floor got progressively smaller as we got closer to the top of the cone shaped rock. It was quite precarious as we clambered gingerly up and down the metal ladders. ( a modern addition.) The floors are carpeted and have low-slung sofas covered with richly coloured textile throws. Windows had been cut out of the rock but had no glass. It was like visiting Fred and Wilma Flintstone or their neighbours, the Rubbles. The Turkish attendant had obviously cottoned on to this, as he greeted visitors with an enthusiastic ” Yabadabadoo!” Once out of the quaint rock house we climbed the hill in increasingly hot and bright sunshine. As we ascended, the views of the surrounding volcanic landscape were impressive. Goreme is amazing even though now heavily commercialised. Rock cones have been turned into houses, hotels, restaurants, bars, shops and almost anything else you can think of. All types of tourists are catered for from back-backers to luxury seekers. All sorts of activities are on offer. One agency we passed was advertising : hot air balloon flights, horse riding tours, camel safaris, Quad Bike tours, jeep safaris, a vintage car tour, a Turkish night party or a “performance” of the Whirling Dervishes. The choice is mind boggling. One wonders how much longer the delicate natural environment can withstand such relentless pressure.

On we drove to Monks Valley, another wonderland of weird, phallic rock pillors. The difference this time was that we could walk amongst them instead of just viewing from above. Each pillar of tuff is topped by a black, basalt cap. Interspersed with the rock forest were bushes and trees sporting bright yellow, autumn leaves, gleaming in the sun. The valley is extraordinary but by the time we got there in the late morning, lots of people were pouring in. It was the weekend and also the start of a school holiday, so there were large numbers of Turkish families. We had to queue to get in and even queue to get out! The entrance and exit are controlled by turn-styles. At the head of the valley are fast food, ice-cream and souvenir stalls, plus restaurants, toilets and a large coach park, which had at least 20 coaches in it when we left. A quiet valley of fantastic rocks has been changed into a busy tourist mecca.

After a set-menu lunch in an underground rock restaurant we visited part of an underground city created by the refugee Christian and monastic communities in medieval times. It sounds exciting but was actually a bit of an anti-climax as we only saw a few rooms used for strange or to house animals. We were warned not to go in if we suffered from claustrophobia as there were some very narrow passages with low roofs. However it was fine. Obviously the guide has never been in the caves and caverns of the Peak District of Derbyshire near where I grew up. The Peak Cavern in Castleton actually has a long, low entrance nicknamed “lumbago walk.” We weren’t issued with helmets or anything. Health and safety seemed to be very casual in Turkiye compared to what we were used to.

Finally , on that hectic but memorable day, we went to witness a spiritual ceremony by a company of Whirling Dervishes. It wasn’t a tourist performance but a genuine religious ritual. It lasted for 45 minutes and we were warned not to take photos or applaud. The Dervish ceremony is an important part of the Sufi Muslim religion. I’ll write more about the Dervishes in my next Turkiye blog which describes a visit to Konya where the mystical Sufi sect was born.

On our second full day in Cappadocia, we had a small lie- in as most of the rest were doing their balloon rides at sunrise. They came back full of smiles and enthusiasm although wrapped up very well as it had been very cold up in the sky. I was pleased that they had enjoyed it. Once we set off at 9.30 we drove to a traditional carpet making cooperative. One of the reasons the tour was so cheap was that places like this paid the tour company to bring its groups there. Some people were resentful and didn’t want to go in but, we had no choice but to go with the flow. There was nothing else of interest around the workshop. We were given complimentary drinks ( we had pomegranite tea) and were treated to an interesting talk and demonstration by a Belgian guy who used to be priest and a Turkish lady in traditional dress. Some of the hand -knotted carpets were absolutely beautiful. Unfortunately, at the end, salesmen attached themselves to us and tried to persuade us to buy. The attitude seems to be that all foreign tourists are rich and have money to burn. Our salesman even followed us to the toilet but had the decency to wait outside. After a while he gave up and we just had a pleasant chat with others in the group while we waited for a couple of people to make purchases. I lashed out and bought a box of Turkish Delights for our neighbours who were kindly putting our bins out and back in.

Next came a visit to an interesting ceramics museum and gallery followed by a self service lunch in a restaurant packed with tourist groups, like us. It felt a bit like we were being processed on a conveyer belt. We stopped off for a panoramic view of an abandoned Greek village spread up a picturesque hillside. In the early 1920s, when the modern state of Turkey was rising, phoenix- like out of the ashes of the Ottoman Empire, Greece and Turkey agreed to conduct a massive exchange of populations. Some people would call it “ethnic cleansing. People whose families had lived in a place for generations, suddenly had to abandon their homes for ever and go to live in another country. In some ways it was a tragedy, as in the old Ottoman days, both nationalities had lived happily together. Now Turkey is littered with haunting, abandoned villages. Presumably it’s the same in Greece. It would have been nice to explore the old streets but we only had time to clock the view and take our photos. I believe many of the old Greek dwellings are now being turned into hotels or shops.

Abdullah, our guide, left one of the best experiences to last. We went back to the village of Goreme and visited it’s outstanding open- air museum. It’s one of the largest monastic settlements in Cappadocia and contains more than than 30 Byzantine- era churches hewn out of the rock. We visited six of them including three 11th century columned churches set into a steep hillside. We saw long rock tables where the Christians ate, alters and crosses, domes and columns, and, best of all some fascinating old frescoes, painted on to the rock. We saw angels and seraphim, the Last Supper, the Crucifixion and other religious scenes all done in the flat Byzantine style of the Eastern Roman Empire. It was a bit strenuous clambering up and down steep staircases to see them but it was worth the effort, at least in my opinion. You cannot beat an ancient fresco painted over a thousand years ago. It’s not exactly the Tardis, but such paintings allow one to travel back in time.

The Open Air Museum was the grand finale of our whistle stop tour of Cappadocia. It had been a memorable if somewhat hectic visit. All the boxes on our tourist list had been ticked. I would like to go back there someday and have a more leisurely exploration of this unique region’s sights. For the time being though, it had been great. I had managed to do 3 satisfying things in 2 full-on days — 1 See some of the geological, historical and artistic highlights of one of Turkiye’s most stimulating areas. 2. Continue my on-going, long term study of mass tourism in action. It is still enthusiastically trying to kill the goose that laid the golden egg. 3. Have interesting conversations and get to know a whole bunch of fascinating people. As someone said to me on another escorted holiday – “”I’m always up for a conversation.”

The next morning it was an early start. We had the long road journey back to Antalya ahead of us. Who knows what surprises lay in store for us? As we drove off after our last Cappadocian breakfast, the sun was rising again along with a hundred or more hot air balloons. Another excited group of tourists were having their experience of a lifetime. It was a spectacular sight to drink in before we turned south and headed away from the land of fairy chimneys, troglodyte villages and frescoed rock churches. Even though Chris and I didn’t take to the air it had still been a memorable adventure. One outstanding sight still waited for us down the road, but that will have to wait for the next blog…..
More Snapshots of Turkiye — Taurus Mountains to the Anatolian Plateau.

November 20, 2025

My wife Chris and I were recently lured to Turkiye on a bargain price escorted tour. We had no intention of going away in November. However, the exotic sounding places and the almost unbelievable price persuaded us to go for it. Everyone assumed we were aiming for a dose of winter sun, but we actually packed our woollies and rainproofs as we were heading for mountains and a potentially cold, high plateau. The first day was spent on an over commercialised coastal strip near Antalya, and I was pretty disappointed. However I hoped that things would look up once we left the coast behind and travelled through the scenic Taurus Mountains and on to the geological and historical wonders of Cappadocia on the Anatolian plateau beyond. Unfortunately, during the night before we were due to set off, there was a tremendous thunder storm with torrential rain. I feared that our trip would be called off because of floods, landslides or worse. My sleep was fitful as I witnessed the eerie Muslim call to prayer at 6am and then the dawn.

Yet, when we went to breakfast, everything and everybody seemed normal. There was no gloom and doom talk of cancellation. The trip to the interior was still on. Obviously the Turkish road network and infrastructure was more robust than I had feared. We packed our cases and set off at the ungodly hour of 7.30am. You don’t get much rest on an escorted tour! As soon as the coach slid into the traffic quite a few of our 40 strong group fell asleep. Abdullah, the guide, decided to save his talk on the Turkish education and health systems until later.

Those of us still awake endured another tedious dose of Antalya’s traffic congestion. Finally, the traffic thinned and we started to climb into the foothills of the mountains. The Taurus Mountains form the impressive backdrop to many a holiday shot of the Antalya coast. Now we were actually going to travel through them! We started to see some spectacular, jagged rock formations and then distant peaks, as we slowly climbed. The weather at first was fine and calm but then the rain returned. Before we knew it, we were in the middle of another thunder storm!

Then, about an hour out of the city, we pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. After an urgent conflab with the driver ( Ahmed), Abdullah solemnly announced that we had broken down. There was a crack in a radiator pipe, the water was draining away, and we were overheating. They phoned the office and organised a replacement coach to come and rescue us but it would take at least an hour. We were stuck near the start of a very long journey of 330 miles. It was our lowest point.

Luckily the storm soon passed and the rain stopped. Most people got out for a leg stretch and breath of air. Being mostly British, the Dunkirk spirit quickly set in. As Turkiye had been neutral in the Second World War, I had to explain to Abdullah what the Dunkirk spirit was. Everyone started to talk, laugh and joke. We were determined to make the best of the situation. One lady trecked a 100 metres down the mountain road and had a wee on a bank behind a tree, guarded by her husband. Needless to say the coach for our “bargain” holiday didn’t have a toilet. She came back with her shoes caked in mud.

A police car arrived and put on its flashing lights to warn traffic of our predicament. Everyone helped to unload the broken down coach. The barriers between us had melted away and we now all worked together as a team. At last the replacement coach arrived. We loaded up, boarded and were off. For 2 seconds we lurched forward and then we stalled! It wasn’t Ahmed’s normal coach! But we soon got cracking, driving through a fairly narrow pass between the peaks. At the summit we entered a very long tunnel through the mountain in front of us. It had only been open a few months. Apparently, the tunnel miraculously shrunk a meandering journey of 1 hour to a mere 5 minutes. Before we knew it we were on the other side and descending. After a quick comfort stop at a services that looked like a large yurt, we drove through more fantastic mountain scenery complimented by colourful autumn trees. We went past a huge lake that looked like the sea. Abdullah told us it was the 3rd biggest in the whole of Turkiye. We then had a lunch stop on the outskirts of Konya, a large city. It wasn’t exactly idyllic. We had a view of a busy ring road and an industrial estate. Our trip into the old centre of Konya was postponed until the return journey in order to make up for lost time. We drove on across a flat featureless plateau, north-east towards Cappadocia.

The highlights were a huge sugar beet factory and a prison! I also spotted a small herd of cows looked after by a bored looking cowherd and a flock of sheep, tended by a big dog and a teenage boy. The sheep had a donkey quietly grazing in the middle of them. That’s something you would never see in the English Lakes or Dales. It was a long day and a long drive. I was beginning to think it was another mostly wasted 24 hours.

Then, completely unexpectedly, one of my personal highlights of the whole trip suddenly appeared in front of us. I thought it was just another toilet stop, but then I found we were walking round the walls of a large, fortress-like, 13th century Caravanserai or desert inn. Without warning, we had been plunged into the medieval world of the legendary Silk Road when constant lines ( or caravans) of camels plodded patiently from China to eastern Europe, their precious cargoes balanced on their humps. Loaded camels could only comfortably travel about 20 miles a day, so every 20 miles, the Seljuk Turks built a rest station or caravanserai. This was much more exotic and fascinating than the caravan parks I had experienced in Britain. We were visiting Sultan Han, the largest surviving caravanserai in Turkiye. It is in the town of Sultanhani. Opposite, across a square, was a large silver coloured mosque with a dome and 2 minarets. Surveying the scene around me, I realised I was now a very long way from home. I felt the hairs coming up on the back of my neck. At one point Sultan Han had been dropping to bits and in danger of being demolished. However, then, thank goodness, the Turks realised its historical value and had it fully restored and opened up as a museum. I’m not sure whether this was because Turkiye suddenly came to appreciate its rich heritage or whether it spotted the opportunity to earn lots of money from tourists. Maybe it was a bit of both reasons. Anyway, from my point of view, as a history buff, Sultan Han was (is) absolutely wonderful!

It was built in 1229 AD because it was bang on the trade route from/to Persia. We entered through a 13 metre high marble gate, with a pointed arch. It is decorated with corbels and geometric patterns in the stone. Very fancy it is. All cameras were out at this point. We walked into a large courtyard, lined with arcades on both sides. These contained the stables and accommodation for the merchants and their animals. In summer, the camels usually slept outside. All food, fodder and lodgings was free, paid for by religious endowments. The Seljuk Turks prided themselves on their hospitality, a tradition that still continues in much of Turkiye today. The lodging rooms are now being restored. As well as sleeping quarters upstairs we saw: kitchens, lounges, a library, quarters for a harem ( for wives, concubines and female servants), a posh room for the Sultan just in case he dropped in and even a perfume room — to “soothe the soul.” In the middle of the courtyard is a small mosque or prayer room which has 2 floors. It’s called a Mescit or kiosk, and is the oldest in Turkiye. The caravanserai also had a refectory and a hamam ( steam bath.) ( By the way, “kiosk” is one of only 2 Turkish words to be adopted into English. The other is “yoghurt.”)

After the guide’s introductory talk we were let loose to explore. It was fascinating. We ducked into the various restored rooms, some of which still had craftsmen working on them. Then we walked through a second ornate, stone gateway into the winter quarters, another courtyard but this time covered with a roof. It has a vaulted ceiling, and lines of stone pillars separated by pointed arches. In the centre is a dome-capped tower. It was like walking into a medieval cathedral. To cap it all, the pillars supported a fantastic display of colourful 18th and 19th century Turkish rugs and carpets. And there was hardly anyone there! What an experience it was.

All too soon we had to move on. Chris and I had been so consumed by it all that we didn’t even have time to grab a cup of coffee. We re-boarded the coach and carried on our seemingly endless journey into Cappadocia. Darkness fell but we ploughed on regardless until finally we turned off the main road and there was our hotel, a grand, palace- like structure with floodlit statues of an angel and a unicorn standing in front of it. You couldn’t make it up.

That night we had a splendid mezze style dinner at the hotel and settled into our rooms which had rounded ceilings and fancy stone niches. It was like sleeping in a compact, ornate cave. Perhaps that was appropriate in this famous land of rock houses and churches and fantastical geological formations. All that was before us, but for now it was time to reflect on an epic day of emotional ups and downs and some indelible memories. At last we drifted off into sleep, dreaming of the wonders of Cappadocia still to come.( we hoped.)
SNAPSHOTS OF TURKIYE — the ups and downs of an Escorted Tour.

November 18, 2025

I’ve been to Turkey 3 times before but this was my first trip to Turkiye. ( Ha Ha!) The Turks have recently changed the name of their country, maybe because they were fed up with being associated in the West with the festive season’s sacrificial bird. My first visit was to Istanbul, on my own, way back in 1974. I stayed in the same hotel as Agatha Christie and James Bond,( the Belle Epoque: Pera Palas, up the hill from the Bosphorus). I visited the monumental church of Hagia Sophia, saw a dancing bear outside the beautiful Blue Mosque ( very cruel), tried to walk to Asia but didn’t make it, found out I didn’t like Turkish coffee ( a bit of brown sludge in the bottom of an egg cup), and visited the fabulous Sultan’s palace with its glittering crown jewels. ( the Topkapi Sereglio).

Two decades later, in the early 90s, a girlfriend and I found ourselves in Kalkan in Lycia on the Turquoise Coast of South West Turkey. It was a wonderful holiday, alternating sunbathing and swimming with visits to ancient sites. About 10 years ago I was in Lycia again, this time with my wife Chris. We were on an escorted tour west from Antalya which eventually took in the fantastic Roman cities of Ephesus and Aspendos. Finally just recently, we got lured by a bargain price, on to another escorted tour in the holiday low season, this time linking Antalya, on the south coast with the weird but wonderful landscapes of Cappadocia on the central Anatolian plateau. It was to prove a hectic, eventful but memorable trip with a few lows but many amazing highs.

A friend of mine who had been on a Mediterranean cruise described it as a series of fascinating snapshots, whetting the appetite for a longer visit at some future date. I think an escorted tour follows much the same format. You see a collection of interesting places for just a short amount of time each, before quickly moving on. There is little time to linger. The downside is that someone else is deciding what you see and how long you will see it for. Someone else even decides when you get up and have your breakfast. Relaxation is not a word one would associate with an escorted tour. Sometimes it can be frustrating as outstanding places are experienced in a rush. But the alternative would be to travel round an unfamiliar country, which speaks a strange, incomprehensible language, on one’s own. At our age, the thought of doing that is pretty scary. Our carefree, backpacking days are now well and truly over. So Chris and I sacrificed some of our freedom to play it safe and have a lot of the worry taken out of our heads. We travelled on a package tour with 32 British people, 2 British based Turks, a German lady from Blackburn, a Canadian lady now living in Derby and 2 Taiwanese Chinese ladies currently residing in London. It was an excellent bunch of people — interesting and varied. Everyone was friendly, open and supportive. Our Turkish guide and driver were Abdullah and Ahmed. They looked after us very well although inevitably there were a few little niggles on the way. However as the Muslims say, nothing and nobody is perfect except Allah.

The adventure started in Manchester where we caught a budget airline flight to Antalya on the Turkish south coast. It was a near 4.5 hour flight reminding us that we were not only travelling to another country but also to another continent. Turkiye straddles both Europe and Asia. One early highlight of the trip was seeing the dark mountain peaks of the Balkans rising up above a blanket of white cloud which had settled in the valleys below like snow. Once we landed at Antalya we could stop thinking for ourselves as the guide and driver then took charge. Like schoolchildren with our teachers, we were now being chaperoned. We drove through dark and busy streets lit up in lurid neon, to our hotel complex. After a late buffet dinner, we settled down in our room to catch up on sleep. We had pushed our clocks 3 hours forward, and our bodies needed time to adjust.

It would have been good to rest up the next day. The hotel complex was very nice, with a pool, tropical trees and plants, a bar and lots of slim, graceful cats slinking around. We saw cats all over Turkiye. Presumably they are there to keep the mice and rats down. Yes, it would have been nice to relax but we had paid to visit a mosque and go on a river trip, so off we went.

The coast west of Antalya is ugly and heavily developed. It is a popular tourist area, a narrow strip of land between the Mediterranean Sea and the dramatic Taurus Mountains, just inland. A four lane highway runs right behind the beaches. This now hosts almost permanent traffic congestion and the situation has been made worse by the addition of a tramline, built for an Expo in 2016 which few people use. Alongside the beach is a continuous line of huge luxury hotels and holiday villages. Some of these are really showy and over the top — something we saw a lot of in the tourist areas of Turkiye. Some people would call it “kitsch.” Tourism has brought a lot of revenue to the area but has also made property incredibly expensive, driving the local people out. The largest group of tourists are the Germans, followed by rich Russians and then us Brits. Many people are attracted to the idea of relaxing, sunbathing, swimming, sipping cocktails and living in luxury for a week or two. Some don’t even leave their tourist complexes for the whole of their stay. They are sometimes cynically referred to as “fly and floppers.” In the past this was a peaceful area of Greek villages known as Pamphylia but now it is a crowded concrete jungle. It seems that in chasing the tourist dollar, Turkiye has failed to learn from the “mistakes” of the Spanish in the 1960s and 70s who covered their attractive coastlines in a sea of concrete and tower blocks and more or less invented mass tourism. Apparently, about two thirds of Turkiye’s holidaymakers are “sun tourists”, while the remaining third are attracted by the rich array of sights and culture. We fitted into the latter category.

Amidst the ugly, urban sprawl that spread like an ink stain along the coast, Abdullah pointed out an ancient Roman bridge across a river and the remains of a Roman aqueduct which had once brought water to the city from the mountains. The ruined aqueduct was a sad sight. Most of its stones had been pilfered for other building works over the centuries. The idea that the past should be preserved to be part of a country’s heritage is a relatively recent one. Hadrian’s Wall in England for instance is now a World Heritage Site but in the past, local farmers stole its stones to build their houses, barns and sheep pens.

At last we turned off the busy coast road into the town of Manavgat, about 50 to 60 kms east of Antalya. I was hoping to be able to have a wander round the town centre and perhaps witness a slice of everyday Turkish life. But no— we were on a tight schedule and were there to visit a mosque. Even though it was the low season, tour buses were constantly coming and going and groups of tourists were being shepherded in and out.

To be fair, it is a beautiful modern mosque, based on the famous Blue Mosque of Istanbul but smaller. It had been built in 2004 and paid for entirely by the Government. It seems that the current Turkish government led by Recep Erdogan is trying to turn Turkiye into a more religious Islamic nation, moving away from the ideas of Ataturk, who created modern Turkey in the 1920s out of the ruins of the collapsed Ottoman Empire. Ataturk wanted to establish a secular nation to avoid the religious strife that had plagued so many countries over the centuries. Like Modi in India and Netanyahu in Israel, Mr Erdogan seems to be reversing this policy and is using religion to shore up his support. He seems to have largely succeeded, as around 90% of the Turkish population are now muslims, although most don’t speak or read Arabic, the language of the Koran.

As I said, the mosque at Manavgat is ravishingly beautiful. It was worth getting out of bed early for. We had already been half woken by the early morning call to prayer from the local minaret which reminded us that we were no longer in the UK. Now, after removing our shoes and the ladies covering their heads, we were standing in a Muslim place of worship and it felt a real privilege to be there. We got an interesting talk about the main features from our guide, then a demonstration of the call to prayer from the Iman or priest. We then had time to explore the building, admiring its ravishing turquoise tilework, beautiful calligraphy, stained glass windows, patterned carpet, niches and graceful arches. It was all laid out beneath a spectacular, decorated dome. As in a church the rule is that there should be no visual representation of God or Allah. This explains the emphasis on complex geometric patterns and lovely stylised calligraphy. All too soon we had to leave. I suspect the next tour group was waiting to come in.

The itinerary now dictated that we leave the town and drive to a nearby river where we were scheduled to go on a boat trip. I imagined picturesque scenery, and a relaxing cruise to an interesting destination. Little did I know that we were being led blind into a tourist trap. Our meal on board the tourist boat was paid for but straight away, the crew were circulating trying to sell us drinks. For some reason, drinks always cost extra. They then took our pictures and of course framed versions of them were waiting to tempt us at the end of the trip. Mine was framed inside a plate! The scenery was scruffy with quite a bit of litter on the river banks. Just inland were the impressive mountains but we were sailing away from them. All along the riverbanks were mock galleons decorated with pirates, dinosaurs or dragons. It was a fake world created for gullible tourists. I shuddered to imagine what the river would have been like at the height of the tourist season. The river flowed gently to the Mediterranean Sea. Our boat then moored up and we were given 1.5 hours of free time to “enjoy” a short stretch of sandy beach that lay between the river and the sea.

I had hoped we might stop at a quiet, pretty spot where we could relax and contemplate the sea in one direction and the mountains in the other. But that was just wishful thinking. The reality was a tacky tourist trap, with cafes, bars, ice cream stalls, jet ski sessions and camel rides. Yes, some tourists were grinning nervously as they perched precariously on top of a camel plodding across the sand. My pedantic teacher side kicked in when I noticed that the camels were dromedaries which belong to Africa not Asia. Asian camels are 2 humped bactrians and apparently they are an endangered species. Chris and I made the best of it by taking our shoes off and enjoying the warm sand trickle between our toes as we took a slow walk up the beach.

Eventually we were back on the tourist boat which then sailed slowly back to the start. There we met Abdullah who had enjoyed 3 hours rest, having got rid of us on the boat trip. Finally we drove back through congested traffic to our hotel for dinner and then a much needed sleep. I felt frustrated because I thought much of this first full day had been wasted. The mosque had been very good but the boat trip was tacky, touristy fayre. I thought we’d signed up for a cultural, sightseeing excursion. As I retired for the night, I felt a bit low. Had we wasted our time and money coming all this way to do gimmicky tourist stuff? I consoled myself by thinking I had witnessed mass tourism in action. Following a pre-arranged itinerary, the tourists were collected into groups and then placed on a conveyor belt of packaged experiences. It was very disappointing . I cheered myself up though by thinking that the journey through the Taurus Mountains would be spectacular and once we had left the over-commercialised coastal strip, we might actually witness some genuine Turkish life and culture.

Even before the early morning call to prayer, we were rudely awakened from our slumbers by a tremendous thunder storm. It began around 3am and lasted for over an hour. Constant flashes of lightning lit up our room and then our ears were assaulted by deafening claps of thunder. The rain was torrential. As I waiting for the storm to die down, a new worry entered my mind. What if our route through the mountains was being flooded? Would the road be passable? Might there even be landslides up in the highlands? I had seen a landslide on a previous trip to Turkiye when the bus I was on between Kas and Demre had to slow right down to allow diggers to clear the way ahead. I gradually drifted off into a restless sleep. Might the trip be called off before it even began? Despite the fixed itinerary, thanks to the extreme weather, this tour could end up becoming a journey into the disappointing unknown.

To be continued… Watch this space…
Growing Up In The 1950s.

October 12, 2025

I’m approaching my 76th birthday so most people would classify me as an old man. I’ve recently been accused of talking more in the past tense than in the present or future, but I think that’s fair enough as I’ve been around for over three quarters of a century. I have a lot to look back on. I have recently been reading a couple of memoirs set in the 1960s and 70s and they have brought back lots of memories. What was it like then, in those distant, pre-internet days? While I am still compos mentis, I’ll try to explain a little.

BATHTIME.

I grew up in a fairly simple, working class home in the east Midlands of England. It was a rented Railway house as my dad was a fireman and later a driver for British Rail. We had no bathroom and the toilet was outside. We only had a cold tap. Water had to be heated up for washing and cooking. We had a kettle of course, and a bigger water heater called a “copper”. It had a large copper element inside which heated up once it was plugged in. Because of all the faff, we only had one bath and hair wash per week. Bath-time for my sister and I was on Sundays evenings. A tin bath was half filled with hot water from the copper. During the week the tin bath hung from a nail on the toilet door. My dad washed me in his rough and ready fashion and my lucky sister got a more gentle experience with our mum. The days of walk- in showers and instant hot water were still a long time off for us ordinary folk.

WINTER.

I remember it being very cold in winter in the 50s and early 60s. Back then, it seems to me that we had proper winters with lots of snow, ice, rain, fog and wind. We didn’t have dramatically named storms like the recent Storm Amy — we just lumped it all together and called it “winter.” We didn’t have any of this global warming stuff either. It was proper cold. To combat this, knitted mittens, scarves or beanies were often Christmas presents from mum or grandma. Having snowball fights, going sledging or building snowmen was a regular and real thing in the winter months. Snow played a much more prominent part in our lives than just making a pretty picture on a Christmas card.

HEATING.

Our house only had one heated room. All the other rooms were freezing cold. No-one I knew had central heating in the 50s or 60s. The one room was heated by a coal fire and every hearth was furnished with a scuttle, a pair of tongs and a poker. One of my earliest household duties was to go outside to the coal house and use a shovel to fill up the scuttle, which was actually a big bucket with a lip on its rim. Every family knew how to light a fire using : screwed up newspaper, a criss- cross of sticks and small quantities of shovelled coal. If the fire was slow in getting going we held up a big sheet of newspaper to “draw” the fire. The paper made the chimney pull the draught up it from the enclosed space, hopefully feeding in more oxygen and creating a stronger flame. We were always nervous that the newspaper might actually catch fire while we were still holding it. Once the fire had got going , more coal could be gradually introduced. Underneath the fire was an ash can which had to be emptied regularly lest it overflow. I don’t suppose anybody thinks about any of this these days as all one has to do is press the heating switch on or wait for it to come on automatically. I wander if Alexa would have any idea about “drawing a fire” or getting rid of the clinker. For the uninitiated, clinker is the hard residue left behind after the coal has had all its gases burnt away.

Carrying on with the cold theme, we learnt to get dressed and undressed very quickly. Often the inside of the windows would be frozen over when we woke up in the morning. They would have pretty patterns on them which we called “Jack Frost.” Jack has mostly been banished to the past now in this age of double glazing and central heating. At night we would warm up our beds with hot water bottles as the sheets would be so cold. I can still remember the warm, rubbery smell. Some people like my grandma would wear specially knitted bed socks. Of course, none of us had duvets or “continental quilts” in that far off decade. They might have been all the rage in France but we had never heard of them. We just had loads of blankets to keep us warm. Some people had electric blankets which they switched on a couple of hours before bedtime. We didn’t get them though, presumably because of the expense and maybe because my parents didn’t fancy getting electrocuted in the middle of the night.

PLAY.

An important aspect of life for me as a young child was play. Baby boomers like to reminisce about how they used to go out and play all day, without a care in the world, until it was getting dark and their mums called them in for tea. Parents and children were less worried about “stranger-danger” then. I suppose it was just left to our common sense. Like just about everybody else, I was out with my mates playing in the streets all hours of the day, when not at school. We played chase games such as “Kingy” ( running after people and trying to hit them with a ball), hide and seek ( always a favourite) and hopscotch, after chalking the pavement with squares and numbers. I never understood the rules of the latter but still joined in enthusiastically. There was also a street game called “Queeny” but I’ve forgotten what it entailed. Boys and girls of all ages happily played together without any bother.

Near our house were 3 grassed- over coal tips — waste from the mines. We used to climb them and play cowboys and indians or Japs and Commandoes up there. One day I was hiding in the long grass pretending to be a cowboy when something dark and shiny came slithering towards me. I immediately forgot about the game, and assuming it was a dangerous snake, I ran all the way home to my mum. In my panic I dropped my toy six shooter and it was never seen again. I got sent to bed early for carelessly losing my gun. This was about the 3rd one I had lost! My excuse is that my toy holster was too loose. I bet Billy the Kid or Wyatt Earp never had that problem! Ironically I later found out that my slithering nemesis was not a deadly snake but a harmless slow worm. Such is life! The tallest coal tip was nicknamed Mount Pud. To us it was like climbing Everest, or at least Ben Nevis. It was so high that as we neared the top, the grass ran out and we were just scrambling through cinders and ash. Naturally we got filthy and we got told off again when we got home. More washing for mum!

WASHING.

My mum had a primitive washing machine which heated the water up and churned the clothes around after the detergent had been introduced. Before that my grandmothers had to bash the clothes around with a special stick in something called a “poss tub” and a bar of soap had to be turned into flakes using a knife. Going back to mum’s washing machine — once it was finished, the clothes had to be fished out with wooden tongs and then put through the electric mangle, which was a set of rollers that squeezed the excess water out . My grandmas had hand-operated mangles where you turned a big handle at the side. I used to help by standing to receive the flattened clothes as they came out of the rollers. I was always a bit frightened that I might trap my fingers. The designated washing day was always a Monday. On that day we only got a fry- up for our meal as our mums had been busy all day with the washing, mangling, drying and ironing. The fry- up consisted of stuff left over from the big Sunday dinner. That’s where I got my taste for fried potatoes, smeared with spicy, brown HP sauce. There was always a bottle of HP or red tomato ketchup on the table. I now realize it was the added sugar that we were really after.

STREET SALESMEN.

Talking about sugar, one treat was when the ice cream van came round. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. We used to have two Italian ice cream companies in Chesterfield where I lived — Cuneos and Fredericks. We used to favour the former as it was creamier although they were both delicious. At some point we progressed on to ice lollies and then “Jubblies” — lumps of orange- flavoured ice in a carton. We cut off a corner and sucked away to our hearts content. A lot of tradespeople came to sell their wares in the street. We had a travelling grocery shop, which was very useful as most people didn’t have cars and had to walk or catch a bus to the local corner shop. ( we didn’t have self service supermarkets in the 50s). We also had travelling green-grocers, butchers and fishmongers. I’ll always remember the rabbits and chickens hanging from hooks when the butcher opened his van doors. I was more than a bit horrified. The highlight of the week though was when the pop lorry came round. We had 2 — the Coop and Corona. Being loyal Cooperative Society members we only ever went to the Coop lorry. Our favourite flavours were Dandelion and Burdoch and Lemonade. We then got a bottle of grapefruit pop to go with Sunday dinner as that was regarded as extra special. It was all sugar and additives of course but we didn’t worry so much about that in those days. My grandma used to keep the pop bottles in the cellar near the coal, as that was the coolest, darkest place in the house. It was very spooky, full of coal dust and spiders’ webs, when she sent me down the stone stairs to get one. We didn’t have fridges or freezers in the 50s or for much of the 60s. We bought fresh rather than frozen food and shopped more often. In our house we had a walk- in larder which had big, cool, stone shelves. Milk was delivered daily to the doorstep, another British tradition that has largely ( though not entirely) disappeared. Most people also had newspapers delivered to their letter box. Later on, as a young teen, I earnt extra pocket money as a paper-boy. I did my delivery round before school.

My very first “job” however, involved travelling round the streets selling bunches of firewood with my paternal grandad. He was a retired miner and had a pony and cart. My dad had made me a little hand cart and my job was to shovel up the pony’s droppings when it did its business in the street. My dad then used this as fertiliser for his garden. He gave me a silver sixpence for every cartful. That’s about 2.5 pence in today’s money but it was a useful amount of money for a young boy in those days. I used it for sweets and bubble gum from the local shop. The bubble gum came wrapped up in flags of the world. I used to collect them and stick them in an album. I valued that time as it was the only occasion when I spent any quality time with that particular grandad.

SUNDAYS.

Sunday was a special day for my parents, but a bit of a misery for my sister and me. I grew up in a strict Methodist family and so Sunday was all about church and worship. We had to attend both morning and afternoon Sunday School where we sang simple hymns, learnt Bible stories and coloured in pictures. One week it might be the Good Samariton while the next week it might be about Jesus feeding the multitudes with just 5 loaves and 2 small fishes. One of the most popular songs we learnt by rote was “I am happy, loved and saved.” In each verse we spelt out the key word, for example: H.A.P.P.Y. Another one was “Now Zacchius was a very little man, a very little man indeed indeed, he climbed up in a sycamore tree, for the Saviour he wanted to see.” I think you get the idea. After tea my sister and I had the ordeal of the evening service — 4 hymns, a prayer, a long, boring sermon and the benediction. It lasted for about 75 minutes, the longest hour and a quarter of the week.

We weren’t allowed to play out on Sundays, have ice creams or watch sport. This became a big frustration for me when ITV’s “Big Match” ( its answer to Match of the Day) was broadcast on Sunday afternoons. Sunday was also Brylcream day. My dad would summon me to the kitchen once I’d got dressed up in my “Sunday best” and smothered my hair in thick, white grease from a jar. He would then comb it and slick it back in a big quiff so I ended up looking like Elvis Presley. Ever since I have always said “no” when the barber asked if I wanted gel on my hair. Sunday, of course, was also the day of the big dinner. This is when we got to eat the Sunday roast and all the trimmings. My dad would stand at the head of the table, make a big ritual about sharpening the carving knife, then would cut a slice of beef or pork for each of us to go with our vegetables, mashed potato and gravy. He was very proud when he did this because he had been out to work and earned the money to put meat on the family table. It’s not surprising that he became very confused, angry and upset when I later became a vegetarian.

SCHOOL.

I began school when I was nearly 5. I mostly enjoyed it even though it was quite strict. We had to learn our times tables by rote, chanting them all together in the class. If the headteacher came in we all had to stand up and he would test us on our tables. For instance — what’s 6 times 5 or 4 times 8? If we got one wrong we risked getting whacked by a ruler across the back of the hand. I got the ruler for cheating in a test, naughty me, and I also got slippered for fighting. The other lad and me were having a playfight in the classroom but accidently knocked over a book stand. There were good things though. It was at school where I developed my love of literature, history and geography. I also made friends there. Each classroom had 4 rows of desks — A,B,C and D. We were given regular intelligence tests and were made to sit at the desk which reflected our position in the class. So if you were at the front of row A you were top of the class, but if you were at the back of row D you were at the bottom. It was all quite blatant and crude. It’s just very unfortunate that D is the first letter of DUNCE. One good thing about schools in the 1950s in my opinion was that primary school pupils didn’t have to wear a uniform, as they have to now. We just wore our normal togs. Boys up to 10 had to wear short trousers however and it became very embarrassing for me as I was very tall for my age. In the end, me and a couple of other lanky lads got special permission to wear long trousers.

HOLIDAYS.

The undoubted highlight of the year for the family was our annual week’s holiday by the sea. Paid holidays had only just been brought in after the war and I could tell my dad was particularly proud that he could afford to take his family away. We were doubly lucky as my dad’s job on the railways meant we all got 5 free tickets every year. So we were able to catch trains to traditional seaside places such as Blackpool, Scarborough, Gt Yarmouth or Margate and enjoy a week sitting in deckchairs on a beach and making sand castles. My sister and I also enjoyed having a ride on the donkeys, going to a show at the end of the pier, eating fish and chips with mushy peas and licking extra big ice creams. We never got into Punch and Judy though. We stayed in Guest Houses as we couldn’t afford hotels which were regarded as “posh.” Most of the landladies of the B and Bs were nice enough but we still got chucked out of our rooms between breakfast and teatime, rain or shine. I suppose it saved them a lot on their heating bills.

ENTERTAINMENT.

As we didn’t have magical electronic screens to keep us amused in the 50s, everyone was good at keeping themselves entertained. In the early 50s we didn’t even have a television. It was the golden age of hobbies. My dad encouraged us to start stamp collecting, which we really enjoyed. It taught me a lot about the world and probably led to my lifelong love of travel. Being the son of a railwayman meant that it was inevitable that I became an ardent train spotter. It was probably in my blood. I stood on railway bridges or station platforms, noting down the numbers and names of the steam locomotives that chuffed by. It was the last golden age of steam before the rail network got taken over by the boring diesel and electric multiple units that dominate today. For us young boys, all wearing our caps ( as everyone did in those days), spotting steam locos was an all encompassing experience, and a feast for the senses. The sight, sound and even the smell of the engines were ( and are) spectacular.

Back home we had the radio to entertain us. I used to like the music request shows such as “Children’s Favourites” with a presenter fondly known as Uncle Mac. On Sundays we had “Forces Favourites” catering mainly for the British service men and women in Germany and other overseas bases. My Grandma used to listen to a radio soap opera called “Mrs Dale’s Diary” and everyone listened to “The Archers” – an “everyday story of country folk.” Amazingly, over 70 years later, many still do. By the way in those days the radio used to be commonly referred to as the “wireless”. It was all run by the BBC as commercial radio had not yet taken over the airwaves. We also listened to comedies such as “Round the Horn” and “The Goons”. The latter was one of King Charles’s favourites so you can tell how old he is.( even older than me.)

To amuse ourselves, our family often had a jigsaw on the go. Until it was finished, we kept it under the tablecloth. Top tips were to do the straight edge pieces first to create a border and to leave the sky until last. We also used to make “proggy” rugs or mats, by cutting up strips of spare material and attaching them to a special canvas backing, stretched across a frame. As you can see, a lot of our entertainment was communal and didn’t involve looking at one’s own private screen for hours on end.

TELEVISION.

As the 50s decade progressed, televisions slowly started to appear in the home. At first they had small screens ( 12 inch was typical) and were in black and white. A lot of people purchased or rented them for Queen Elizabeth’s coronation in 1953. My maternal grandma did. Neighbours then would pile in to watch the ceremonial events in London. As a little boy I used to enjoy all the “Listen with Mother” programmes on BBC such as Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men and Andy Pandy. I used to get a lump in my throat and cry a bit when and Andy and Teddy went back into their basket. Later on I progressed on to The Lone Ranger, a masked lawman bringing justice to the wild west, on his horse Silver and ably assisted by his faithful “Indian” friend” Tonto. Then after ITV launched in the mid 50s, new highlights were “Wagon Train” and “Rawhide”, both exciting westerns. I got special permission to stay up for Wagon Train on a Monday night as my usual bedtime was 9pm and it didn’t finish until 9-30. I would pretend to go to bed and then, unbeknown to my sister, who was 2 years younger than me, I would sneak downstairs in my dressing gown to watch the forbidden fayre.

Like many people have pointed out, life was a lot simpler in the 1950s but just as enjoyable. There was no internet, no unlimited choice of TV channels, fewer cars to ferry us around and few of the luxuries that we now think of as necessities such as double glazing, hot and cold running water, bathrooms and indoor toilets. My family didn’t get the last 2 things until we moved to a brand new council house in 1960. I remember that first wonderful hot bath! No doubt I have missed loads of interesting subjects out, but you can have enough of a good thing. I don’t want to outstay my welcome. I had a great childhood with lots of freedom — except on Sundays. I then went on to a very exciting teenage-hood in the 1960s, the age of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and “Swinging London”. Even in the relative backwater of Chesterfield, the 60s were pretty exciting. I feel lucky to have been in the generation that has lived both before and after the advent of the internet. The pace of technological change has been difficult to keep up with at times but I’ll keep trying to move forward, as well as fondly looking back. It’s called nostalgia.

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