India 2012

This year, the Formidable Foxalls wanted to go to Samarkand and although that name conjures up images of Silk Road splendour, it has to be remembered that the reason China was cut off for so many centuries, was because the road to get there was so bloody awful. The Dynamites had other plans. To follow the Spice routes might be a little softer on the bum cushions. It’s about 25 year since we have been to India and, in those days, the furthest South we got was Goa, so we managed to convince them that a trip to the land of Coconuts and Cardamom might be a nice change. Well that was the idea anyway.

We flew into Bangalore, arriving at about 2am. Our travel agent met us and introduced us to our Car and Driver, his name was Gireesh and he had a Ganesh on the dashboard. So far so good. We drove through the night and the early dawn to Mysore and, thanks to the copious use of speed bumps and the erratic nature of Indian driving, My Sore bum had already scotched any thoughts about this being a relaxing holiday. We arrived knackered and it didn’t get much better than that.

Dori had spent a lot of time chasing the Travel Agent to get us the Hotels we wanted and managed to get everything set up and confirmed 6 months in advance. However, 4 days before we left Hong Kong, they e-mailed to say that 2 of the hotels, in Cochin and Kovalam, had bumped us out because they had accepted large tour groups. Ratbags. Dori managed to find a replacement for Cochin and they found us an alternative in Kovalam.

Fortunately Dori’s choice in Mysore, The Royal Orchid Hotel, is a splendid establishment. Made more so by the fact that they let us check into our rooms at 9.30 in the morning. Hot showers and a good breakfast and it was off exploring. But first we needed cash. “No problem Sir!”, was fast becoming Gireesh’s by-word, although this was later to be replaced by, “What to do Sir?” and, “I am telling you these Muslim guys are all terrorist Sir!” Banks in India are endless queues and forms made from cornflake boxes or toilet roll, so we figured we were in for a half-day event but, half-way down a leafy suburban road, we pulled up next to a couple of geeks on a scooter. “Here is Bank Sir! My friend.” His friend lifted the scooter seat and displayed a well set-out currency trading desk. From the comfort of our car seats we dabbled in conversion trades.

Wallets burdened with brown bum-wad and off to Srirangapatnam where Tipu Sultan had unified the warring Princes, driven out the East India Company (With the help of some interfering Frenchies) built a huge fort and a palace and a really deep dungeon, where he chained up any English he hadn’t already impaled, and generally became a bit of a national hero. He was a Muslim, so in today’s media he would have been labeled as a Taliban and, in those days, the English sent in the equivalent of the S.A.S with Exocets, which was the Scots Guards. Nothing more confusing to your good musselman than a soldier in a frock. He doesn’t know whether to f*&% him or fight him. The Nizam of Hyderabad (A classic panto name if ever there was one) was bribed by the EIC (Now it sounds like a cricket scandal) and, in the confusion, Tipu went down and 2 hundred years of English domination began.

The fort has largely gone and the dungeon looks a lot more sanitary than it probably was. The palace is okay, with loads of murals depicting Tipu whacking the Brits and some etchings of the Brits whacking Tipu, but the biggest celebrity of the day was us.

We notched up 2 temples, one of which was covered in incredibly detailed carving, excepting one bit where somewhat dubious erotica seemed to be rapidly wearing away, but everywhere we went people asked to have their photos taken with us. Me, okay I can understand and the girls, obviously. But, Jon Foxall? I can only assume that a lot of Indian people are either myopic or need to have something to frighten their oxen.

On the way back into Mysore we stopped at the biggest banyan tree I have ever seen in my life. Nothing at all to suggest why one of the biggest living things on the planet should be just sitting out in a dusty brown field in the middle of nowhere. But it seemed happy enough, as did the little man who lived underneath it and made his living from sweeping all the stones into neat little piles. Nutters know something that we don’t and that’s why they are always laughing. Possibly this one knew why Indian people want pictures of Jon Foxall.

Back to the hotel. Another bath. G & T’s. A bottle of wine that we had brought with us (Dori’s suitcase was 80% liquid) and a really good curry. Then a fabulous bed.

Day 2 and I was really sick. I had been working in Macau non-stop for the previous two weeks trying to finish the Grand Canyon in a Shopping Mall. The ferry over is always packed with our Mainland Chinese brothers, packed to the gunnels with every form of bacterial microbe not yet known to medicine. These they happily share by sneezing, hacking, gobbing and puking, generally in my direction. 3 bouts of flu, one straight after the other, combined with serious fatigue and I had a sinus infection that left me feeling like I had 5 gallons of congee gummed inside my head. I soldiered on.

We went up Mysore’s Chamundi Hill to see another temple. It looked nice, but the queue of 5 thousand trying to get in was a bit daunting. We found another, older, quieter temple and a geezer with a tea-towel round his waist dabbed some red stuff on my forehead, tied a bracelet on my wrist and demanded money with menaces. Why are Hindu priests invariably the biggest slobs around? I paid up, it was about 20p and guaranteed to bring me good luck. And anything that prevented his fat, sweaty, hairy back being shoved up against me, I considered to be good luck.

We walked around the promenade, watching devotees paying for the privilege of pulling a chariot full of fat, sweaty, hairy backed priests. A group of young men fell about laughing when one of their friends stood straight in a cow clap. Because cows are sacred I pointed out that their friend was particularly lucky, which they thought was even funnier. Then Jon stood in one and we all howled. That was the best 20p I have ever spent.

We stopped at another temple half-way down the hill to see an enormous cow statue. Probably raised in honour of all the arse pancakes around the other temple. Then we went to Mysore Maharaja’s Palace, where Gireesh had arranged for a friend to guide us round. “What to do Sir? He is a very distinguished Gentleman and I am knowing nothing”. Mysore Palace is actually very cool. It looks like it was designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel on acid.

It’s all cast iron columns, beams, girders and fretwork painted aquamarine, raspberry and lilac. Some of the rooms have incredible stained glass roofs so it’s like being trapped inside a sherry trifle. We loved it, but sadly, the Government is not taking the best care of it.

We then went to the Railway Museum which, The Lonely Planet guide said should not be missed. How wrong they were. Sadly it is just another dirty and decaying symbol of Indian decline.

Devaraja Market was a lot livelier. Rows and rows of sacks, overflowing with flowers being made into garlands and screens and necklaces. Mountains of brightly coloured dyes. Enough bananas of every shape and colour. And all sorts of stuff that was unidentifiable, but on sale nonetheless.

Back to the hotel for more R&R and then back to the Maharaja’s Palace for the main event. We joined the surging crowds as the sun set and we had our photographs taken with pretty much everybody there. A band of musicians started giving it big licks on those Indian Banjo wotnots and Tablas (That’s not Spanish snacks, that’s Indian bongos) and then….. Somebody turned the lights on. Whoopdedo! Everybody cheered. The band played on. Everybody got bored and we all went home. Seriously, it was very pretty, but after the first 15 seconds, you had pretty much seen it all.

Day 3 and off we went to The Nilgiris Hills, also known as the Western Ghats. A small hill station town called Ooty. Ootamacund was its full name under the Brits, and now the Indian Government has decided it should be called Udhagamandalam, but it was nicknamed SnootyOoty by the lower class of Brit what couldn’t afford to go there in its heyday and that’s what everybody uses. A long drive up into the hills, the weather became extremely pleasant, the landscape rich and green with sparkling light. We stopped at a beautiful waterfall that kept a very interesting record of the number of deaths that had occurred this year. (You don’t see many Indian swimmers at the Olympics).

Then we climbed a big round hill, that was big and round. Then we stopped at a lake, which appeared to be a billion gallons of greenish ooze and then we got to our hotel, The Savoy, which was excellent. Little, Hobbit Hole rooms with fireplaces and creaky floors. We went into the town centre of this peaceful little hill station and were battered back to the sanctuary of the Savoy Bar by the frenzied cacophony of people enjoying the peace.

Day 4 and we went to Church. The old Church in Ootamacund is reasonably well looked after and has interesting graves and burial plaques which tell of the hardships of going tropo. One 25 year old Guards lieutenant had drowned with his horse whilst out hunting with the Ootacamund hounds.

It also had some beautiful almost Pre-Raphaelite stained glass. Then I bought a fabulously, politically incorrect, cast-iron, money bank, in the form of a smiling coloured gentleman who eats coins and rolls his eyes. On his back, he is described as the “Jolly Nigger Bank”. The sort of souvenir that would get you knifed in many places. Then to the Botanical Gardens which, I am sure, was really good, once upon a time. It’s still very pleasant, but the best part for me was the waterfall that had been painted on the rocks because the plumbing didn’t work.

In the afternoon, we said a short goodbye to Gireesh and boarded the Train down the mountain to Mettupalayam. This is described as a toy train, but I thought it was far from it. The guage is narrow and it doesn’t go very fast but the ride is amazing. After the first main section to Conoor, they switch engines from diesel to steam and it is a beauty.

Very much like the ones in the Mysore museum, still dirty, greasy and decrepit, but working. We were right in the back carriage and, leaning out could see the carriages in front rattling over bridges and through tunnels, the big old engine belching out acrid diesel/coconut oil fumes that filled the tunnels and coated us in muck. The train guard behind us was also the Brakesman and boy, did he earn his keep. He spent the whole downward journey jumping from side to side, turning the brake cranks and sending up clouds of blue smoke as he tried to keep us on the rails. The views were stunning. Waterfalls, Jacaranda trees in full bloom standing amongst waves of tea bushes, the Plains far below. I loved it. Frequent stops to take on water, drink excellent India Railways Chai and feed the monkeys. Best part of the trip.

But then of course, the best part of the day was spent and we still had to get to Cochin. We met Gireesh, explained that we didn’t have time for namby-pamby tourist driving and he took off like a bat out of hell. Boy did we motor. Jon, because of his size, always gets to ride shotgun and he spent the next 5 hours white knuckled to the dashboard, Liz staring over his shoulder screaming into his ear. As darkness falls, a demon host take to the roads of India. They are the trucks. Huge rumbling behemoths, mostly without lights or any sense of road rules. This was a nightmare journey but, bless them Gireesh and Ganesh got us there. We checked into Les Trois Elephantes in the middle of nowhere about midnight. Had a spat because there was only one room with air-con, but had to stay. Tossed for it and won fair and square, despite recriminating looks from the Foxalls and passed out. Bliss.

Day 5 and the dawn broke. I got up for the loo and never made it back to bed. Our cottage looked over the backwaters. Channels of brackish tidal waters where the land meets the sea, the sea meets the rivers and it’s all a bit mixed up. Huge great wooden cranes like stranded crabs rear up out of the still waters, mist shrouded, shrimp nets suspended by balance weights of rope and rock. Indian music rolls over from some distant temple. A lone fisherman casts his net from his boat, then slips into the water to gather his catch as the orange globe of the sun burns its way up and over the crown of the coconut trees. Absolutely fabulous. I couldn’t put my camera down.

After breakfast, we drove along the peninsula and took the ferry over to Fort Cochin. Pretty in bits, but a depressing amount of rubbish. It’s 25 years since we were last in India and then, it was too poor to have rubbish. Now it’s everywhere. This in a country with hordes of tourists, bringing in foreign currency, where many people would welcome 1US$ a day to collect it. But this is India, there are probably 500 non-existent people on the employment roster and being paid just that, while some Government Official drives around in his newly acquired Benz.

Unfortunately, our day wasn’t going to get much happier. The ferry dropped us off right by the Harbour Hotel that had bumped us out and we took the opportunity to pop in. It was beautiful and we were pretty upset. The Duty Manager asked if he could help in anyway and I explained that we were very angry that they would accept our booking the previous October and then bump us 4 days before we left Hong Kong. He seemed a bit shocked and said that this was definitely not company policy and asked for our names. He then checked the e-mail correspondence log and showed us that the first enquiry from our Travel Agent had been made only 3 weeks before, by which time they were fully booked. So the Agent had taken our deposit and lied about the bookings. Now we really were angry.

It’s difficult to enjoy yourself when you feel like you are being ripped-off, so the day was pretty grim and then, when we met back up with Gireesh, he said that the Agent had been on his phone and wanted to speak to us. She called again and, on a very bad line from Delhi, demanded that we go to their Agency office immediately and pay the outstanding 50%. One option would have been to tell her to go *&^% herself but we didn’t want to lose the car and driver or the remaining nights reservations. However, I did keep my blood pressure under control as I told her that there was no way we could pay immediately, because the money was back at the hotel and there was no way we were driving back and forth just because they forgot to tell us in advance. She got quite stroppy about this and told me that we had to. So I told her that we had been to the Harbour Hotel and we had found out about them lying to us. So then she went quiet and said she would call back.

Still fuming, we went off to see Jew Street and the oldest Synagogue outside Israel. It seems that after having been kicked out of home on one of the earliest occasions, they established a large trading community here which for centuries lived in peace with the locals until those jolly Portuguese chaps came along and slaughtered most of them because, well because that’s what Portuguese chaps did in those days. What’s left is a street full of antique shops where you can buy wooden replicas of St. Anthony’s martyred leg, complete with wounds and fake blood or a 10metre high Hindu temple gate. Yids. They will sell anybody’s religion but their own.

Back to Gireesh and the Agent had called again. Could we go to their Agency office anyway and discuss the bill and how to settle it? He said it was only 10 minutes by car, so we agreed, by this time I was embracing the possibility of getting somebody’s throat between my thumbs. Of course, if they had told the truth, we would never have gone, so we arrived an hour later and spitting blood, only to find that the lift up to the office was broken so that the man from the Agency had to come down and we had our meeting on the street. I think it was a set-up and he wanted the meeting in full public view in case I did get my hands on him. Anyway, as it happened, he was quite conciliatory and we struck a deal whereby they covered the first nights hotel cost and we handed over the outstanding sum at our next stop which, at the time, seemed pretty fair.

We drove back into town, feeling a bit more up-beat and went to see a Kathakali Dance performance. This is a bit like Punch & Judy meet the Widow Twankey with Godzilla playing the part of the young princess. All male, or at least nominally so. The music was different, the dance was unusual, the costumes were amazing and the make-up was incredible. The lead dude has to look angry so, an hour before each performance, he puts a peppercorn under each eyelid and keeps it there so that his eyes are nice and red. He must be mental.

We went back to the Harbour Hotel and had a beautiful meal in the garden, under the stars, with really good Indian musicians. Then the ferry and slog back to our Hotel and another morning gasping in awe at the sunrise.

All aboard the Gireesh Express and we drove back up into the mountains to Thekkady. Hard driving along windy roads, we arrived, exhausted, at the Aanavilasam Plantation House. A very nice young man acting as the Travel Agents local rep accompanied us to the house and, before we had time to check in, asked us to settle the outstanding Agency bill and sort out our itinerary. We were happy to get this out of the way and handed over the cash and got a formal receipt. The itinerary in Thekkady included a jeep safari into the Periyar Tiger Sanctuary and a boat ride along the lake. “Sorry sir, but there is no safari or boat ride booked”. We showed him our printed itinerary which confirmed that this was included in the price. “Sorry sir, but the Travel Agent did not confirm this. All bookings must be paid in advance and they have failed to do so.” We politely asked that he sit down, we removed the key from his motorbike, asked him to put our money back on the table and suggested that he might like to get the Agent on the phone. This he did. There then followed a conversation that hardly needed a phone. Despite the terrible line I think my voice could have been heard in Delhi without it.

Of course it was all our fault. Because we had refused to pay our bill on time, they had not been able to make the arrangements. At this point I advised them that we would retrieve our money and pay all outstanding bills ourselves, ransom the car and driver and set fire to the motorbike. They decided to call us back. When they did, all matters had been taken care of, please to hand back the cash and have a wonderful holiday. “Right then!” says I. “Now that’s settled, let’s check in, grab a beer and head off for the boat ride”. The local rep had a rather pained expression on his face. “Sorry sir, the last boat left 15 minutes ago.”

Teeth were gritted. The safari was confirmed at 5.00am the following morning, so we let it ride. The Aanavilasam is a haven at the best of times. At the worst of times it is a blessing. Calm, small and extremely elegant, it sits on a hillside surrounded by a Cardamom plantation. Owned by an Indian Photographer, but managed by a Finnish lady, it is very cool. Beautiful big rooms with fabulous bathrooms. Just the 4 of us staying there. They gave us a short tour of the grounds and cooked a wonderful dinner. The sort of place you could stay a month and just let your brain go awol. But not us. Up before the dawn was cracked, we packed and shambled out to the car. Into the local village and climb into a Jeep, then rumble through the pre-dawn mists. So far, this is looking pretty good. We stop at the sanctuary gates and get our permit, but by this time, there are several other jeeps arriving but, seemingly, not too many.

The top comes off the jeep and we drive in. A bit of a convoy is building up, but not to worry because, we assume, we will all head off-road any minute and go our different ways. We stop. Across a distant hill-top we can see an elephant and a buffalo. OK. We stop. Look! A squirrel! OK. We stop. Look A monkey! OK. We stop. Look! The village bus is overtaking. His jolly horn advising any Tiger within 15 miles that another convoy of silly tourists is on its way. We stop. That’s it…. We are at the Tourist Information Centre. By now there are about 50 Westerners in Jeeps and 100 Indians who arrived by air-conditioned coach. We are herded into the refectory where a splendid breakfast of cold fried eggs and white bread is doled out. We are to go on a walking tour into the jungle! The guides circle us looking for the richest pickings. A young dude called Sanjay, selects us and 2 rather nubile young Australian girls, who have dressed appropriately in tight, tiger print leggings and gladiator sandals. We row across a lake, it takes about 30 seconds, and climb into the Jungle. The nearest party to us is 25 metres in front. The furthest party from us is 26 metres behind. We listen to the jungle sounds. The Jewish kids in front whining about the lack of ice cream stands. The Lahndan boys behind shouting “Here Puss, Puss, Puss!” Something tells me that the likelihood of sighting anything bigger than an ant is unlikely.

We stop for a rest, deep on the trail. There is elephant spoor everywhere. Sanjay deduces from our despondent looks that we are less than impressed. “Follow me”, he beckons and we move, off-track, away from the masses. After 25 metres or so, we begin to wonder at his decision. We are working our way along a small river bank. The water levels are very low, this being dry season. “Why are we going this way?” Dori whispers. “Is it because we might find elephants coming down to drink?”. “No”, I whisper back, as we slip and stumble our way from rock to rock and branch to branch. “It’s so that when one of the Aussie girls slips, he can be there to catch her, protect her and cop a quick feel.” “You have such a dirty, distrusting mind!” She whispers in return, just as. “Aargh! Screech! Help!” One of the girls slips and falls – straight into Sanjays arms. He looks like it’s all his Birthdays rolled into one and it takes a while to get her breasts disentangled from his watchstrap.

Finally, we move on, until, “Aargh! Screech! Wassat! Is that a leech?! Oh my God it is! Aargh! Screetch! Getitoff!” It seems that gladiator sandals are not leech-proof. But then it becomes apparent that Trainers aren’t either. We look at our feet. Leeches are squirming their way through the eyelets, through the airholes, through our socks. Liz already has a big, bloody patch on one sock. We stop and balance each other as shoes and socks are removed and de-leached. I look around the rock we are standing on and the whole surface is alive and writhing towards us. Sanjay decides this would be a good time to get us out of there and sets off up a near vertical slope of thorns and saw-grass and red ants. Somehow we get up without falling backwards to almost certain death by blood-letting and emerge onto a village track, where we spend 10 minutes de-leaching again, I even check inside my boxers. We have been off-track for a good 50 metres. Still, we got our adventure.

We head back towards the Visitor Centre and Sanjay starts in about how this isn’t his real job. He is a student but needs to supplement his income to put himself through Business College, which is very difficult as he comes from a poor family. I congratulate him on his fortitude and point out that my own 13 children are doing exactly the same, working in coal mines, deep sea fishing trawlers and sorting toxic waste to earn enough money to become Doctors. He seems very impressed.

Back at the Refectory, we decline the generous offer of white bread and tinned sardines, having decided to skip the rest of the days itinerary and head off to our next destination, Kovalam. We leave the park, all the while skimming the horizon for Tigers or Leeches. We see some Buffalo and another squirrel. Whoopdedo! Gireesh awaits with air-conditioning and boiled sweets. We discover leech attacks that had been previously unnoticed. Black blood crusted in socks. We head back to the coast.

By evening we arrive at The Manaltheeram Ayurvedic Spa hotel. This was one that the Agent chose, after our first choice booking ‘Bumped’ us out. The lying b#$%^&*^s! But it wasn’t bad. Simple cottages, but a pleasant resort and the location was beautiful. Situated on top of a cliff, the sea pounded the beach below, stretching off as far as the eye could see. A lovely meal and some of our own wine (our bags beginning to lighten somewhat) with live musical accompaniment.

Up with the dawn and the beach already active. Lines of local fisherman working at something. We went down to discover. Boats rowing out with miles of net, dropping an arc over the ocean and returning, riding the crashing surf further down the beach. Teams of old gadgies in sarongs and turbans, pulling on ropes, hauling in the nets. Hand over hand and walking backwards. Circulating from back to front. The never-ending rope and net. Finally, the floats begin to bunch, you can see the arc closing with the shore. Some of the younger fishermen jump in to try and keep the fish within the arc and stop the surf tumbling the whole contraption so that the mornings work does not escape. Egrets and crows descend in the hope of spillage. Finally, with one great roar of crashing foam the sea surrenders its bounty, the catch is in. The purse is hauled ashore.

5 sprats and a crisp packet. How anybody makes a living at this is beyond me.

We wander along the rocks and survey the coast. It really is a very pretty place. But prettier by far is a little spot close to our cottage, where a hammock swings between 2 palm trees. Dori tries to divert me. We really should partake of the free Ayurvedic consultation. So we do and a fat little bald man with a waxy complexion, whose belt is just below his nipples, tells us about how us Westerners are full of stress and poop. How if we were to stay for a month, they would void us of our poop and our money (evidently the cause of most stress) and we could look as good as him. A man seemingly half my age. Dori decides to have a massage. I decide to take my stress to the hammock and drop off my poop at our cottage on the way. I win.

2 hours later, Dori finds me blissed out, gently swinging in the Aryuvedic breeze. She, meanwhile, smells like the chip fat from the Wetherby Whaler, having had some grizzled, horny handed, old biddy, drip sump oil into her hair and rub it into her Aryuvedicised skin. She stinks and it takes 2 non-Aryuvedic lavender showers to get it out.

I manage to surface long enough for lunch, a couple of beers and a quick trip round the shops, before returning to my place of meditation. The sun is still shining, the breeze is still blowing, the surf is still crashing upon the sand, my tummy is busy turning all that stress into poop again and Life is exceedingly good. I stay there until Dinner time.

Day 9 and they manage to drag me, kicking and screaming, from my hammock. By now my back and bum look like a string bag full of spuds. We drive to Alleppey to meet our house boat. The whole area between Allepey and Cochin, stretching over a distance of some 50 miles, are canals, lakes, backwaters and seas that are evidently rice paddies. The old rice barges are redundant in this age of trucks and so have been converted into beautiful houseboats. They have thatched roofs and balconies, air-conditioned bedrooms and a crew of happy wayfarers who delight in pampering their guests with cold drinks and tid-bits. Everyone except ours. This was the last opportunity for our travel Agent to f*&^ things up and they did it in style. Our decrepit old tug was barely afloat. No balcony, only a glassed-in front bit, where we could peer out through sticky windows at the glories passing by.

Fortunately, we found a beer shop, where we took on enough supplies to drink ourselves into an imaginary boat. We bought fresh prawns for lunch and a lovely Snapper for dinner. Lunch was not bad. We sat in the doorways we had forced open and watched the afternoon world drift by. The snapper was annihilated and turned into some sort of Bombay Duck. We finished the beer and the last of the wine and retired to our resplendent rooms where we spent 15 minutes investigating the bedsheets. Our jolly crew woke us at 3.00am when the air-con packed in and at 5.00am when the cabin boy was rogered by all hands, but apart from that and the rats gnawing at the mooring ropes, it was relatively peaceful.

The morning mists cleared over the backwaters and we bleary eyed travelers welcomed our Taxi driver. Gireesh had left us the day before, his duties done and done excellently. He had guided us safely over many miles, always in good cheer. “What to do? What to do?” He left us, the recipient of a handsome tip and Liz’s annoying little squeaky duck, a present for his son.

We got to Cochin airport and took a flight to Bangalore, with a10 hour layover before our 12.30am flight to Hong Kong. Although quite a nice new airport, Bangalore has zip in terms of Public facilities, so we managed to locate a hotel nearby and took a taxi out there. Just a room with a shower would be sufficient, but they wanted an arm and a leg and they wanted us to take 2 rooms. We managed to convince them that there was none of that westernized hankie-pankie going on and that it would just be me and Jon in the room while the girls left their luggage and went shopping. Showered and rested, we got back to the airport to find our flight delayed until 4.30am. Such Joy.

So, Southern India? We had a great time, but I wouldn’t exactly recommend it. Some good bits, some fantastic bits, but a lot of annoying stuff and some really hard work for little reward as well. Now I really want to go back North, but I’m scared that it won’t be as special as I remember it.

Thanks to Gireesh, our Number One Guy. “What to do?”

Johny D

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