Cats of Montenegro

Icelandic World of Ice and Fire

Witness the tectonic plates being slowly torn apart

     It’s easy to see why scenes from Game of Thrones were filmed in Iceland. The land is a spectacular backdrop for any film location and for any holiday adventure. Iceland is Europe without the dainty, without the Baroque, without the castles and without the touts and queues. What it does have is mind blowing scenery, big open spaces, empty roads and a fascinating history that is well documented and presented for your entertainment and information.

      Reykjavik serves as a perfect base from where to start your exploration of a land that lies on the tectonic plate, the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. You can actually see where the Eurasian Plate and the North American Plate are slowly separating at 2.5cm a year. How cool is that!

      Based in Reykjavic, you are nicely positioned to take day trips along the Golden Circle which takes in the national park of Pingvellir, Gullfloss waterfall and the sites of Geysir and Stokkur. Geysir must be where we learned the name of geyser which we have attributed to all sorts of water spouts. It comes from the Norse verb geysa, to gush. In fact, many of our words and customs stem from this Norse culture.

Geysir is not as strong a Stokkur which regularly bursts forth

Summer wildflowers brief appearance

      Did you know law is Norse as are the concepts of Commonwealth and Parliament. The site of the very first parliament or assembly, the Althing in Norse, established in 930, is in Pingvellir National Park and you too can stand on the rock where gatherings of lawmakers and clans set about keeping warring factions apart and ensuring all Icelanders had a share of the pie. The mediaeval Icelandic state had a unique judicial structure based on the principal of consensus, so way back then, they had a uniquely democratic structure of governance and law making.

      My visit is in summer, so I don’t see the Northern Lights, but the long, long days make up for that. During August it doesn’t really get dark at all, so you have extra time for sightseeing and road trips. Tour companies offer many pricey treats, but if you are a driver, it’s far better to hire your own car and do your own thing. Beware the speed limit though...just 90k. If you are caught speeding a hefty fine will arrive in the post a few weeks later. Highways tend to be single carriageways and there aren’t many freeways, but the bonus is, traffic is minimal.

Blue Lagoon bathing

      The Blue Lagoon thermal springs and spa are just about the most popular item on most tourist’s agenda. You won’t be alone in the warm bath of geothermal seawater, silica, algae and minerals but you will emerge feeling simultaneously calm and energized. There’s a mid-pool bar and plenty of silica to baste and exfoliate your skin. At 40 euros it’s not a cheap experience but it is a unique one for most.

Skogafoss wall of water

View Seljalandfoss from the road

Then there are the dozens of waterfalls across Iceland. From Reykjavic be sure to make the effort to reach Gullfoss, a spectacular force of nature and Skogafoss in the south, which is very easy to access. In fact you can walk right up to its thundering wall of water. Also in the south is Seljalandfoss which you can walk behind.

Gullfoss in winter

      If you visit in summer, you will understand why Game of Thrones took inspiration from such a unique environment and want to return in winter to enjoy the experience in a different season when glaciers grow every larger and rivers and falls are transformed into walls of ice. Or should that be Beyond the Wall.

Spectacular force of nature Gullfoss

Songs for the Road

     Music, an essential ingredient of any road trip, has the knack of crystallizing the mood of the moment and transporting us, even years later, to another time and place.

Open top driving in Hawaii accompanied by Tears for Fears

      While living the experience of your journey across the Nullarbor, to the back of Bourke, along the Birdsville Track or beyond the black stump, the car stereo pumps out the accompanying soundtrack. Whether going up the highway, along the coast, over the mountain pass or down through the valleys, the sing-along, the radio, the cassette and now the CD fills lulls in conversation, quiets the too talkative or acts as lyrical companion to the lone driver.

     Some songs, seemingly disconnected but somehow integral to the trip, are able to reach into a past we think we’ve forgotten. In the 70s, the guitars of the Allman Brothers and Derek and the Dominoes filled the sandy campgrounds of the Greek Islands. Olive groves wavered to the clatter and splutter of Volkswagen combi vans and Layla’s entwining guitars. In Spain, the single lane country road between Barcelona and Sitges, now a six-lane highway, strummed and hummed with Cat Stevens and on Mediterranean shores, young people got drunk, fell in love and danced in the moon’s shadow.

     As our open topped convertible circumnavigated the Hawaiian island of Oahu in the 80s, the palm trees swayed, the surf rolled in and the sun shone to Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears who topped the charts and chimed out of every doorway on Waikiki.

     Not that all road trips have to be exotic. Elvis Costello accompanied my sons and me on our drives to school in the 90s. During that 15 or 20 minute trip, depending on traffic, I listened to his quirky lyrics, instead of adolescent bickering. The man who sang, What a good year for the roses, many blooms still linger there, made for a little more harmony and soothed fragile morning tempers. Whenever I hear that funny old voice, dispensing one of his ironic narratives, I still see two stroppy teenagers, all insolence and spots, arguing over whose turn it is to have the front seat.

     When I left London for the Continent recently, my son thrust an eclectic collection of CDs through the window. Here, he said, you’ll need these. He was right. By the outskirts of Calais, Europop made station-flipping tiresome. The CDs became travelling companions and over the following thousands of kilometres, we rotated through them, testing and getting to know them until the songs and voices became inextricably entwined with place and experience.

Elvis' baritone is a wonderful driving companion

     That other Elvis, boyish and exuberant in his first Sun sessions, rocked us around Amiens and the Somme battlefields. Raw and untrained, his youthful and vigorous, That’s all right, Mama, could have been the poignant cry of any soldier buried in the cemeteries dotting the landscape. Instead of evoking connections with a swivel- hipped love hound with bouffy quiff, his molasses-dripping baritone now suggests the rumble of war and poppy strewn French meadows.

     The southwest corner of France meets Spain where the long black ribbon of the 

Poppy fields of the Somme Northern France 

tollway penetrates the mountains in a series of tunnels. Australia’s, The Dirty Three fits the mood of the Pyrenees perfectly.  Indian Love Song, quietly intense as we enter the gaping mouth of the tunnel, builds with energetic passion as the mountain consumes us. The soaring violins start to race with the traffic…150kph…170kph. It’s adrenalin-pumping music to accompany a fierce contest of who will reach Spain first, you or the monstrous Mercedes throbbing at your bumper daring you to go faster. Cars race by, big, black and powerful. The violins play a rousing accompaniment to the startling pace. A BMW races into the rear vision mirror, braking at the last minute before swerving to the outside lane and sweeping past in a dramatic overtake.

Serge Gainsbourg accompanied us along the Riviera

     All the way through Spain and Portugal we played the collection. From Lisbon to the Algarve, Johnny Cash played dry and mean. Tom Waits’ growled all the way from Valencia to Avignon. Serge Gainsbourg rode with us along the Riviera to Nice, Cannes and Monte Carlo. Jane Birkin panting en duo avec Serge seems apt as we negotiate the cliffs leading to the playground of the decadent and infamous. Je t’aime, she gasps as Serge brings her skillfully to a breathless crescendo while below the fabulous yachts flaunt themselves on the azure sea.

     Ahhh…places in the heart made all the more memorable by the backbeat of songs. These are the road trips that live on in our memories. These are the places we remember all our lives.

The stepped streets and hidden undercurrents of Devon’s Clovelly

Bideford Bay, Devon

      The cobbled streets of Clovelly tumble into England’s Bristol Channel near Bideford Bay. Whitewashed cottages, piled one above the other, cling to the sheer Devon cliff face, forming a picture-postcard village so cloyingly perfect, you suspect you’re in an olde worlde re-creation purporting to show the life and times of a bygone era.

      If you hanker after ragged ranges and sweeping veldt, then Clovelly’s chocolate-box charm may not be your cup of tea. But there’s no denying, it is quaint, cute and oh so sweet.

      Listed in the Doomsday Book, circa 1100AD, this fishing village stands on the site of an ancient Saxon settlement. Now preserved and protected for future generations by the Clovelly Trust, the settlement is a living relic of a time when life was measured by the ebb and flow of tides, by sunrise and sunset.

      When I arrive, late on a summer afternoon, Clovelly exudes an air of tranquility. The stepped streets, staggering steeply down to the harbour, are virtually empty of the usual pedestrian hordes. A few red-faced and out-of-puff stragglers struggle up the main street, which climbs 150m in half a kilometer. My descent into the village, an official car-free zone, promises to be crush-free as the throngs of tourists have already retreated for the day.

      I mince gingerly down, taking dainty steps suitable for this cute little toy town. The cobblestones, hauled from the beach to pave the main thoroughfare, called Up-along or Down-along, depending on which direction you’re walking, can be precariously slippery.  I’m terrified the leather soles of my sandals will skid, sending me helter-skelter down Down-along. And it’s not even raining. In fact, it’s a scorching 26 degrees.

      Being Britain, summer rain is always on the cards. A smattering of drizzle or even a fine sea mist must turn the cobbles into skidpans for the unwary. Goodness knows how the daily busloads of pensioners escape uninjured. Rubber soles are a must but not rubber slip-slops, which make exploring side alleys arduous, as will tottering along in high-heels. A young Britney clone looks decidedly uncool crawling on all fours, mini skirt barely covering her rear, after a humiliating cobblestone tumble.

Clovelley's main street

      Taking it slowly, I reach the 17th century New Inn, its William Morris style decor sumptuously elegant for what was once a humble seafarer’s watering hole. I daren’t have one for the road. It’s too steep. The extreme incline renders Clovelly inaccessible to cart or carriage, so guests’ luggage is delivered to the Inn by sledge. Traditionally, all heavy deliveries - mail, groceries, furniture, beer - were slid down the cobbles. Donkeys bore the loads back up as recently as the 1990s, when animal welfare issues ended the practice. Today, donkeys are restricted to giving rides to children and posing for photographs, or left to roam freely in the top meadow.

      I continue down Down-along. Flower-decked cottages, some half-timbered or decorated with stones from the beach, line the road. Some residents show off chintzy interiors bursting with ornaments and book lined shelves, others hide behind filmy lace curtains.

      Although you could call the entire village a museum, two cottages are open to the public as museum exhibits depicting the past life of the village. The Fisherman’s Cottage recreates 1930s scenes from a typical fisherman’s family home. Next door, the Charles Kingsley exhibition shows the style in which the famous Victorian author and social reformer lived. The museum’s voice-over recites Kingsley’s 1851 poem, The Three Fishers, about three fishermen’s wives waiting through the night for their husbands to return.

‘Three corpses lay out on the shining sand,

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and ringing their hands

For those who will never come home to the town.’

      As a child, Kingsley lived in Clovelly where his father was rector from 1830 to 1836. Charles Kingsley’s experiences there inspired his children’s classic, The Water Babies.

Kingsley later returned to Clovelly where he wrote his historical novel, Westward Ho! The town of that name, complete with exclamation mark, lies just along the coast.

      Reaching the Look-Out, a stone-walled plateau on the cliff’s edge where villagers watched for returning fishing boats, I’m reminded that Clovelly is not just a pretty face. It’s a place of underlying grief.

      At Temple Bar, the street passes under an archway containing a resident’s kitchen and dining room. I find a place to perch and gaze across the estuary. From here I can rest while admiring the scenery, but for Clovelly’s fisher families, it was another place to gather to scan the sea for homecoming boats.  

      The life of the ancient mariner envelopes Clovelly and wherever you scratch the surface, hidden undercurrents are revealed. The village’s delightful veneer hides the tragedy that often befell a community waiting in vain for the boats to come home. Such tragedies drew the villagers together and, today, that strong spirit continues. As a working fishing village, the danger of sea, storms and squalls are ever present. Yet these elements also unite a community where tenants must apply for residence and agree to contribute to village life. The result is tenants working towards common goals, keeping the village shipshape and themselves happy.

      Since 1738, the Hamlyn family has owned Clovelly and they are responsible for renovation and restoration. If you balk at paying the entrance fee, bear in mind, maintaining a unique living and breathing village is a costly duty. Traditional craftsmanship and materials such as oak and slate aren’t cheap.

     Clovelly is steeped in brine and the smell of the sea saturates the air, pickling every stone and wooden beam. This is especially true of Clovelly’s oldest cottage, called Crazy Kate’s after a fisherman’s widow, who watched her husband drown as he fished in the bay. The sea literally laps at Kate’s doorstep, and one day in 1736, Kate Lyall, clothed in her wedding dress, walked out her door and into the sea to join her husband.

Clovelly harbour and Red Lion Inn

      The harbour, with its 14th century quay, is a rewarding conclusion to a precarious walk. I’ve glimpsed the coastline, notorious for shipwrecks, smuggling and piracy, throughout my descent, but when the harbour appears in all its glory, it’s a revelation. Small, compact, akin to a movie set waiting for a piratical Johnny Depp to swing into shot, the harbour is picture perfect. Actually, pictures don’t do it justice.

      Clovelly harbour is testament to the substantial fishing fleet, which once thrived on huge shoals of herring in winter and mackerel in summer. Today, dark patches of fish dart and dive in the deep green transparent sea. On this day, only one brave child, belly sucked in with trepidation, treads one-step-at-a-time into the icy water. A shrill squeal signals the plunge into deeper water. Sea birds wheeling overhead, though momentarily silenced by the intrusion, soon resume their eternal cries.

      The Red Lion Hotel, built on the quay during the 17th century as a beer house for fishermen and villagers, today provides respite for tourists in need of fortification to face the arduous climb back up UpAlong. A recent renovation, although architecturally sympathetic, inevitably means some of the inn’s original charm has been lost with the twelve new ensuite rooms. In the Snug bar, still with remnants of the original building, the barman, a local, recounts tales of storms and killer waves breaking over the quay, and the need for lifeboats, in service in Clovelly since 1870. Seduced by his West Country burr, I drink a pint of heady local cider.

      To my relief, I discover there is also an easy way back to the cliff top in the form of a summer Land Rover service. All too quickly, I’m whisked around the village outskirts. Along a narrow back lane, beneath dark canopies of oak and ash, we roar in first and second gears. I’m deposited near Clovelly Court, the estate manor house and gardens. The manor supplies locals with flowers, fruit and vegetables which flourish in the maritime microclimate caused by the warm Gulf Stream.

Wildflower meadow, Clovelley

      I clear my head in the salty air with a coastal walk through woodlands draping the cliff tops. Birds sing and butterflies flutter amongst the summer wild flowers. I take time to savour the impossibly pretty views of the bay, thankful I’m not scanning the horizon for a late returning boat.

TFL Please keep your rubbish with you at all times

     A few months ago, I wrote an open letter to Boris Johnson about litter in London, especially on the tubes which at times are a disgusting mess of food scraps, drink cans and newspapers. I didn’t have a response from Boris, so put my quest for cleaner trains aside until I noticed a post about trains in Mumbai. http://janmerryauthor.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/anti-litter%20campaign

     India is not known for being spick and span and their trains suffer over-crowding and harassment issues, but at least they're clean. I contacted the blogger and asked if all Indian trains were so clean.

Joe Brucker Taipei train

Spot the difference: London train

 Here is her response:

Its surprisingly clean on the trains - what you might see out of the window is a different thing entirely! You would never see all that paper like in your post - someone would have nabbed it to re-sell it within minutes. http://mumbaimag.com/train-spotting-mumbai-local/

India trains are clean but have other problems hindustantimes.com

     Doesn’t that tell you something about our throw-away society and how here in the ‘developed’ world we should and could do more about our waste. Perhaps Tranport for London could change those annoying announcements from Please keep your belongings with you at all times to Please keep your rubbish with you at all times and have consideration for other travellers by taking your rubbish home with you.

The sweet allure of ancient Cadiz

“…Cadiz, sweet Cadiz! is the most delightful town I ever beheld…,” wrote Lord Byron to his mother in 1809.

   Byron was entranced by the town and “the most beautiful women in Spain”, whom he declared were charming and pretty and graceful. In fact, they were a voluptuous delight the staid English could barely imagine.

Narrow alleys lead to ancient squares

   Cadiz may no longer hold the allure of the exotic, after all, the Costa is just around the corner, but there is still plenty to be besotted with.

   Founded by the Phoenicians in 1100BC, Cadiz is a peninsular-island on the Atlantic Coast. Less than a day’s drive from Lisbon to the west or southeast across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco, Cadiz enjoys a location, which is simultaneously isolated and strategic. Seville, Cordoba, Ronda and Granada are hours away.  Jerez, the home of sherry, is a day return trip. Coto de Donana, the largest national park in Europe and the habitat of wildlife and numerous species of birds, lies to the west.  And to the east, the vast wild beaches of the Costa de la Luz are probably the most untouched in Europe.

   Once the launching point for ships sailing to the newly discovered lands of America, today Cadiz is a quiet, laid-back resort where Spanish holidaymakers enjoy the surf and wide sandy beaches.

Sun and surf in Cadiz

   Cadiz old town is a warren of narrow alleyways, once the salty haunt of sailors and vagabonds. Next door is new Cadiz, a strip of high rise hotels and apartments overlooking the sea. The two worlds collide when the promontory of the modern town meets the headland of the old town.

   The old town, preserved from development by its ocean fortifications, is a relic of the 18^th century when Cadiz was at its most prosperous. The plazas, both grand and intimate, the churches, public buildings, turreted houses and golden domed cathedral, were financed by the gold and silver trade. With loads of Spanish loot floating around, no wonder Cadiz developed a reputation for indulgence.

The old town's golden domed cathedral sparkles in the sun

   European merchants spent their wealth embellishing the city. All the routes from America converged here, so to keep an eye on the movement of ships in the port, the merchants finished off their mansions and palaces with watchtowers. Today, 126 of the original 160 watchtowers are still standing. The Torre Tavira, the tallest tower in the city, has a camera obscura, an idea of Leonardo Da Vinci’s, which reflects a panoramic view of the city.

   A leisurely stroll over a few hours is all you need to take in the entire old town. And wherever you walk, whether through the parks on the fringes of town or down back streets, a glimpse of the sea is just around the corner.

   Cadiz has endured its share of drama and violence, withstanding a siege by Napoleon’s troops and falling to the forces of Franco’s dictatorship. The decisive Battle of Trafalgar, waged off this coast in 1805, remains a wound in Spain’s side. The Anglo-Spanish Maritime War may be over, but the locals seem to be still smarting from the notorious raid and sacking of the town by Sir Francis Drake in 1587. In an audacious attempt to gain control of trade with the New World, El Draque (The Dragon, as the Spanish called Drake) destroyed up to thirty of the ships the Spanish were assembling against the English.

    The site of Drake’s attack is Playa de la Caleta, a pretty beach with seafood restaurants inside the old harbour wall. The beach is flanked by the fortresses of Santa Catalina on the western tip of the headland and San Sebastian, at the end of the protective arm of the wall. Jutting out to sea, San Sebastian Castle is home to the Faro (lighthouse) but is open to the public by appointment only.

    Given its century after century history of being fought over and occupied, it’s ironic the atmosphere today is so relaxed. The town feels safe to walk around and unlike so many towns in Spain, is not over run with pickpockets, bag-snatchers and car thieves. Perhaps its size means fewer places to hide or perhaps there are richer pickings in the pockets of English, American and northern European tourists elsewhere. For one thing you won’t find in Cadiz, is hordes of tourists. Yes, you will find people on holiday, but these are overwhelmingly Spanish, largely Andalusians escaping the excruciating inland summer heat. Unemployment in Andalusia is high and much of the available work tends to be seasonal whether as an agricultural labourer, a waiter or a concierge.  The overall effect is to lower prices, maintaining restaurants and hotels at a level affordable for the Spanish consumer.

   During July and August, the Gaditanos (Cadiz was named Gadir by the Phoenicians) get down to an abundance of consumption, especially in the fish restaurants specialising in Gaditian cuisine which dominate the town.  Stalls selling fried fish operate along the beach and it’s likely English seamen took the dish home to the East End of London from Cadiz, because this is where takeaway fried fish originated.

   Although Cadiz seems relatively wholesome and void of some of the tack associated with Malaga and the Costa del Sol, it covets its tradition of liberalism and tolerance. Certainly Lord Byron seemed to be looking forward to just that when he described his ride through Portugal and Spain to Cadiz. 

The first canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage salivates at the delights awaiting:

“But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,

Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.

Ah, Vice! How soft are thy voluptuous ways!

While boyish blood is mantling, who can ‘scape

The fascination of thy magic gaze?”

 

 Byron had a great time in Cadiz

I didn’t find too much vice in Cadiz, but there was a certain lust for life displayed in the thonged, well oiled bodies of the boys and girls frolicking in the surf of Playa de la Victoria, on the left of the peninsular as you approach the town.  Behind the hotels lining this strip of beach, a four-lane highway is less than inspiring, but along the beachfront, numerous restaurants and bars swing into action as the sun goes down. A night market selling African and Spanish crafts sets up at 9pm and operates until the customers run out. If staying in this modern part of town, the ingredients of sun, sand, sea and sangria make for a memorable vacation.

      The clean water sparkles in the sunlight, coarse golden sand, combed daily for rubbish, is spotless. Senoritas flirt cheekily with their amigos, while aging Don Juans and their senoras laze, languid and sensuous, on the banana lounges. Beach bars continue serving drinks and snacks throughout the afternoon and, as a place to while away the siesta hours when the rest of Cadiz is literally deserted, the lure of the beach is almost irresistible.

   Cadiz is definitely old Spain and in mid summer the siesta is adhered to with a vengeance. Between 2pm and 3pm locals go into a feeding frenzy. In packed restaurants waiters thrust giant platters of fresh and fried seafood upon tables crowded with families and friends. Crab legs are crushed ruthlessly and devoured without any false homage to etiquette. Squid, anchovies, plaice, red mullet and hake make up the traditional Cadiz platter while prawns, lobster, shellfish and shrimp parcels satisfy the more restrained.

   You soon realise the wisdom of partaking in this feast; otherwise you run the risk of siesta time starvation. Because once the shutters come down for the afternoon, you may have to wait until 9 or 10pm before they go back up again.

   What to do all afternoon with everything closed? Well, you could go to the beach. Or, you could spend the time engaged in that indoor activity which Lord Byron was so enamoured of. Byron seemed to set out on his travels intending to bonk his way around southern Europe and from several accounts, he succeeded. But it was the Girl of Cadiz who captured his imagination like no other. No English ice-maiden when it came to love, the Spanish girl, in Byron’s case an admiral’s daughter, flashed her fiery eyes and tossed her dark silken tresses in one big come-on.

   However you spend your time in this busy port, the sting of sea spray and salty air will linger in the senses and Cadiz’s easy-going, slightly seedy charm will seduce you.

Reading:  Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and The Girl of Cadiz by Lord Byron

Place of Many Birds free fiction download this weekend

Place of Many Birds is short literary fiction set in Australia in the aftermath of the wars and in the shadow of the Great Depression through to the 1960s. Themes are family, love and growing up.

It's available for free download this weekend: Saturday 22 June and Sunday 23 June 2013.

If you don't have a kindle, you can easily download a kindle app for use on PCs.

Australian and USA readers:

http://www.amazon.com/Place-of-Many-Birds-ebook/dp/B00BZ4O9MK/ref=la_B007Y57CWI_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371558496&sr=1-1

UK readers:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Place-of-Many-Birds-ebook/dp/B00BZ4O9MK/ref=sr_1_fkmr3_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371559250&sr=8-1-fkmr3&keywords=books+jan+merry+place+of+many+birds

How do communities take on the taggers?

Berlin's fine street art defaced by tags

      Berlin’s East Side Gallery is a fine example of the difference between street art and tagging. Street art is all about artistic expression whereas tagging is about identity.

Street art is designed (and I use that word deliberately) to make a comment, to raise political awareness, to enhance a neighbourhood, to make the passerby think while enjoying a visual spectacle. Tagging is all about defacing the environment in the name of self and what is worse, it goes straight over fine examples of art. Street art takes skill, tagging doesn’t.

     It's a crying shame to see Melbourne's Hosier Lane, which has hosted artists like Le Rat and Banksy, graffitied over by nobodies who can do no more with a spray can than squiggle their ‘name’ for want of a better word. Even Mr Squiggle could do better. Most of these taggers are teenagers who will one day grow out of their childish habits. If only they would grow out of it more quickly.

Taggers have spoiled some fine artistic and political
comment on Berlin's East Side Gallery with their
nasty little tags which all say me, me me.

     

     What can be done to reduce the problem blighting cities all around the world? For a start councils could ban the sale of spray paints to under 18 year olds. Though not always effective, it’s a start, as are store lock-ups. Maybe education is the way to go. If young taggers were educated and encouraged to use art to express themselves they might see how crass those tags really are.

Hosier Lane Melbourne

Where's the artistic merit?

Letter to Boris: Fix the Litter

   Dear Boris

   Could you please, please, please help clean up Litter London? 

   As you love to say, London is the best city in the world, but is it fast becoming one of the dirtiest too?

   On every stroll around this fabulous walking city, you can’t help but notice rubbish littering footpaths and roads, markets and High Streets, parks and waterways, gutters and lanes, railway lines and bus routes. It is so very depressing.

Picnicers in Harringay have thoughtfully made a neat pile of their
litter but they need to think a little harder and take it home with them.

   So often I see people discarding litter carelessly without a thought for the consequences. Cigarette ends, chewing gum, receipts, tickets, chip wrappers and packaging are thrown to the ground with abandon. Thickets and hedges, still bare from winter, are frequently traps for litter and make a sorry sight with their tangles of rubbish.

   London needs an education campaign to build awareness that our environment is being ruined. Even the Tube is not exempt with half eaten sandwiches, chicken bones and spilled drinks rattling around the carriage with the newspapers. I ask you...is that OK? Your banning of alcohol on the tube has been a great success and many admire you for doing what the majority want and not kowtowing to a vocal minority. Now we need please-take-your-rubbish-with-you announcements along with the regular reminders to keep belongings close-by.

   Just like a makeover and spruce up make us feel good about ourselves, a clean-up campaign would have the knock on effect of bringing back some pride in the environment and make Londoners feel good about their city...sort of like the Olympics did.

Even the Tube is treated as a rubbish dump.

   You love to extol London’s virtues. Why not start a Clean Capital Campaign and encourage schools to participate. Perhaps you could ask your friend Dave to spread the word countrywide because so many verges along highways and byways are shamefully strewn with litter.

   OK it would cost a little, but you could run a competition for home made ads like you get on YouTube and ask the BBC to run them as community announcements. Besides, it would pay for itself anyway in reduced road sweeping and garbage collections.

   Just think Boris, you could be remembered as the PM... oops, I mean mayor, who put his dosh where his mouth is and created a city so clean it was the envy of the world.

Should You Feed a Stray Cat

         Here's what happened to me when I 'adopted' a stray cat and why I recommend...

thinking twice before you feed a stray cat. You could just kill it with kindness.

Don't be fooled by that cute exterior...inside is a monster waiting to get out.

When the sleek black tomcat turned up at the back door, he had no idea his soulful miaowing would one day result in his downfall. My daughters fell on him in raptures, petting and fussing over him as if he were a baby. The first thing they wanted to do was bring him a saucer of milk and watch that pretty pink tongue lapping contentedly until he was full and could lie sunning himself on the warm cobble stones.

Being teenagers, they wouldn’t listen when I told them he already appeared well fed and was most likely someone else’s pet. Some cats habitually patrol the neighbourhood looking for bonus meals and this chap didn’t look down and out.

   “We shouldn’t feed him as he will clearly be going home for his supper later,” I warned to no avail. We did attempt to find his owner, but as no one seemed to have seen him before, we assumed he was lost or he’d been dumped. We should have tried a little harder.

   Alas, for him, we continued to place enticing bowls of leftovers before him whenever he turned up. Eventually he became ‘our’ cat, spending more and more time in the garden and even strolling through the house when the fancy took him. Not that he was ever truly domesticated or clingy, but we put his habits down to being a tom and therefore a little bachelor-style roaming seemed only natural. He’d disappear for days at a time before we’d hear him in the early hours letting us know he was back.

Bill Clinton fusses over White House pussycat Socks

   We lived on the edge of town in a mixed neighbourhood of new builds and large properties that were slowly being diced into suburban blocks. So we guessed our tomcat was prowling the pine forest behind the house or the swampy land at the bottom of the garden, sleeping rough in the bulrushes like a wayward Casanova. Perhaps he even had other “homes” he visited when he wasn’t with us, because he was certainly well fed and constantly growing. Every time he showed up he looked fit and healthy and just that little bit bigger than last time.

   Then we noticed his behaviour becoming more intemperate. He hissed at the Labrador with whom he’d once been playful friends. He leaped on the table to snatch food when we were sitting down for a meal. Increasingly aggressive, he swiped food from a young visitor’s breakfast plate. Our cat was becoming scary. He was also going walkabout for longer periods; a few weeks might go by before he strolled up the driveway and plonked himself down on the back step.

Then our ducks started to disappear one at a time. The geese followed and had to be put down when we found them injured with broken wings. Foxes took the blame. Even though our tom was displaying bad behaviour and killed small birds from time to time, that was to be expected, but we never took him for the killer of these larger birds.

   Territorial displays are all very well, but when he urinated on the beds, something he wouldn’t have dreamed of when he first purred his way into our lives, alarm bells rang. He arched his back and screeched when he was chased off the kitchen worktop. He was becoming downright feral.

   Concerned he was also becoming dangerous to know, we described his conduct to the RSPCA. After a random search of their records, the real owner, who lived on the far side of the pine forest, was located. Two years previously they’d called in the hope their pet had been handed in. This family were thrilled to collect him and take him home where he belonged. Under instruction from the RSPCA to keep the cat inside for two weeks to reorientate him, and help him reacquaint his bond with his old family, they did their best.

   A week later, he’d done a runner and in the early hours woke us with that familiar miaowing which sounded just like: I am so hungry, nobody loves me, please feed me. This time we knew better and called the owner to collect him once more. She reported his changed demeanour and how they had struggled to cope with him.

   ‘At first he seemed to love being home and just lazed about and let the children play with him. Then he urinated on the beds. Now he hisses fiercely when shooed off the worktops. This cat has changed personality. To tell the truth, if he runs away again, I won’t be bringing him home.’

He turned up next when a wedding supper and dance were being held in our garden. The cat had upset many an outdoor meal as we chased him off the table and away from the food. There was no way he was going to spoil the wedding, so I rang the owner again, to please come and collect the cat, which she did.

We heard later she’d taken him straight to the RSPCA with a command not to bring him home again. Did he meet a grisly end? We don’t know for sure, but it is very possible because he was no longer a cat suitable as a pet. They say domestic cats do not become feral. A feral cat is one that hasn’t grown up with human contact. But the call of the wild was so instinctive, our cat couldn’t say no. Clearly he loved the midnight prowling, hunting, feasting and mating as the fancy took him. But it was by bringing the manners of the wild into ours and his owners’ homes that showed he would never be domesticated again.

   Perhaps if we had never fed him that first saucer of milk, he would not have turned into an unmanageable oaf.  By doing so we had inadvertently taken away a beloved pet which the children had missed desperately. We had encouraged him to stay away from his real home by feeding him every time he turned up. We were naive in failing to connect the disappearance of the ducks and geese with his predatory aggression.

   You have to be cruel to be kind is a maxim to bear in mind next time you are tempted to fuss over or feed a cat that wanders into your garden or rubs against your legs in that cute, vulnerable way. Better to tell him to shove off home and don’t show his pretty face around here again. Better for him, anyway.