Flying around the storm clouds of recession, natural disasters and oil price hikes, airlines have had a turbulent time over the past few years; with the insidious post-recession slump in lucrative corporate travel hitting the airline industry hardest.
But, according to industry experts, seats are once again filling up at the sharp end of the plane. According to the latest (April 2011) figures from the International Air Traffic Association – which monitors traffic across its 200-odd member airlines – premium travel within Africa saw an 8% in increase over the previous year. Air travel to Asia grew by 13%, and the important commercial routes between Europe and Africa rose by 6% over the same period.
“On our key routes, such as Nigeria and South Africa, our premium cabins are operating at very good load factors,” confirmed Stephen Forbes, spokesperson for British Airways in South Africa. “North African routes, such as Egypt and Tunisia have obviously been affected by the political situation in those countries and all travel has declined.”
“Even during the economic crisis corporate travel within Africa remained strong, and we found that the business owner will continue to fly,” reports Jean-Luc Grillet, Emirates’ Senior Vice-President of Commercial Operations for Africa. “You can’t stop your business simply because the oil price goes up!”
But while the market may be growing, passenger numbers are still some way off pre-recession highs. So with supply of First and Business Class seats often exceeding demand, airlines have to fight ever harder to entice corporate travellers – such as yourself – to stump up for a seat at the sharp-end of the plane.
“The aftermath of the recession means that value-for-money is still a key factor,” suggests Mr Forbes. “To some extent on-board products that provide the ability to work, relax or sleep comfortably are a given, so corporate travellers and travel buyers want the whole package. That means a good network with all the concomitant benefits, such as regular convenient connections to key destinations and easy transfers.”
Connectivity is certainly an important factor for corporate travellers, and British Airways currently flies to over a dozen destinations across Africa with easy connections to nearly 600 worldwide destinations via its hub at London Heathrow Terminal 5.
On the continent, the relatively unknown Ethiopian Airlines surprisingly offers one of the most extensive route networks in Africa.
“Ethiopian Airlines serves 63 international and 17 domestic destinations,” says Melisia LaCock, Sales Manager for South Africa: “We have just received new Boeing 777-Long Range aircraft with state-of-the-art business class facilities. These are currently on our Beijing and Washington routes. Our Cloud Nine product out of South Africa is also doing well and is mainly booked by the corporate traveller.”
“Airlines are also working harder at offering more value-for-money through frequent flyer benefits, as well as concentrating on customer service,” suggests Rosemary Adogo, Area Manager Southern Africa for Kenya Airways, which is set to open a new premium-class lounge at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi.
It’s definitely about the whole package, agrees Mr Grillet. “It’s about more than the journey, but also the value-adds that an airline offers. On Emirates we have dedicated lounges at our airports, streamlined airport security, limousine transfer service on arrival as well as Internet access on board. All of these save the corporate traveller time, and allow you to continue working while you travel.”
Abu Dhabi-based Etihad Airways offers a similar suite of value-adds, explains Chief Commercial Officer Peter Baumgartner: “In South Africa specifically, Etihad offers free visa and hotel services for all premium guests travelling through Abu Dhabi and having a transit stay of more than eight hours. In the air, our guests can experience our award winning flatbed seats in Pearl Business Class. Our new Diamond First class suite features a luxurious Poltrona Frau Leather seat that converts to a fully-flat bed.”
Perhaps Axel Simon, Director Southern Africa for Lufthansa German Airlines and Swiss International Air Lines sums it up most succinctly: “Passengers pay more for premium class, and expect more.”
With this in mind, airlines are using new aircraft and enhanced cabin features to entice travellers into the pricier premium cabins. British Airways is just one airline that has used the dip in demand as an opportunity to revamp its premium product.
“We’ve invested £100-million in our new First cabin and it has now been fitted to well over half of our selected fleet of Boeing 747 and 777s,” explained Mr Forbes, adding that British Airways is also the only airline to offer a First Class product on direct flights between Cape Town and London.
It seems that First Class is to be the new battleground for premium travellers; with Lufthansa and Emirates also using their new A380 ‘superjumbo’ cabins to push the boundaries of premium luxury.
In addition to individual suites with a sliding door for privacy and ‘dine-on-demand’ bells and whistles, Emirates’ fleet of double-decker A380s are the first in the world to offer on-board showers. Sadly, while the First Class Private Suites are currently available on a range of aircraft servicing African routes, Emirates has yet to bring the superjumbo to the continent.
“If we bring the A380 to African routes the priority will obviously be Johannesburg,” says Mr Grillet. “There is also potential in Egypt and Nigeria, but those destinations are not possible at the moment due to inadequate airport infrastructure.”
Lufthansa, which operates 107 weekly flights to 15 countries in Africa, is one of the few European carriers to bring its superjumbo south of the equator. The A380 flies daily to Johannesburg, and the airline recently named its latest double-decker in honour of the city of gold.
Although the Lufthansa A380 doesn’t yet offer lie-flat seats in Business Class, the spacious First Class seats convert into fully flat beds nearly a metre wide and over two metres long. And for once, you won’t have to endure aeroplane yoga to change into your suit in the morning: the First Class bathrooms are a spacious modern affair with separate washing and changing areas.
While there might not be showers on board Lufthansa just yet, when 10 747-400s are overhauled later this year they will be the first airline to offer a dedicated bed in First Class. By halving the number of seats in the First Class cabin to just eight, each passenger will enjoy a private seat as well as a full-length bed. With no joints, seat buckles or remotes to contend with, business travellers flying to Europe might just enjoy a full night’s sleep at last.
Page 2: Air France brings premium economy
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Read more... [Up at the sharp end]
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Paaaaaarp! Parp! Paaaaaarp!
The warbling sound bellows out of a curling kelp horn and wafts along the cliffs that hug the edge of the Indian Ocean. There’s a crowd of tourists gathered around the source of the noise, but I can see from the sandwich-board strung about Pasika Noboba’s shoulders that his kelp-cacophony – one long, one short, one long – means that the whales have been spotted off the Old Harbour.
It’s not every town that has its own cetacean Morse code, but winter is whale season in Hermanus and Noboba – the village’s official whale crier – is always the centre of attention when the Southern Rights are in town.
The latest in a long-line of locals to don the feathered cap and kelp horn, Noboba’s enviable task is to spend the winter and spring days wandering the cliff top path in search of whales. Once they’re spotted, a few short blasts on the horn lets tourists know where to find these ever-popular visitors.
And they’re visitors that feel right at home in Walker Bay, the wide stretch of Indian Ocean that stretches from Hermanus to the lighthouse at Danger Point. After a summer spent feeding in the icy krill-rich seas of Antarctica, the warm waters off the Western Cape are the perfect winter hide-away for these blubbery globetrotters to mate and calve.
The town itself is one of the area’s best winter escapes for landlubbers too, with a host of cosy guesthouses and family-run B&Bs. However, far and away the best address in tow is the historic Marine Hotel, with its panoramic Walker Bay views. This five-star Relais & Chateaux property offers discreet luxury with the added benefit of whales on your doorstep and stunning sea views from most rooms. And for fine dining, the hotel’s two award-winning restaurants under the steady skillet of Executive Chef Peter Tempelhoff are certainly not be missed.
That’s all for dinnertime though. In the bright autumn sunshine, I leave Pakisa to deafen and direct his camera-toting admirers and wander off along the cliff top path. The sun is out and the sea winks back at me with deep blue eyes… it’s a fine day to be wandering in the Overberg.
There’s lunch at Mogg’s to enjoy later on, and there are few better ways to work up an appetite than a walk along the meandering seafront path that runs from the New Harbour down to the white sands of Grotto Beach.
The path stretches for 12 kilometres, and is wheelchair-friendly for much of that. The shoreline may be rugged, but our legs fairly fly along the flat walkway as, to our right, the cliffs tumble into the sea. It’s the deep waters at their feet that have made Hermanus one of the world’s best whale watching spots, allowing Southern Rights to float right up to the cliff face and grant visitors close-up sightings from the comfort of a wooden bench.
As we scan Walker Bay with our binoculars, a burst of spray erupts from the water as a whale just off the Old Harbour exhales... Noboba was right after all. In the far distance a hefty Southern Right launches itself into a breach while a tour boat motors out of the New Harbour.
Hunting whales with cameras is big business in Hermanus and, while the town offers some of the best land-based whale watching in the world, boat trips to see the Southern Rights up close are also popular. Happily, it’s a tightly regulated industry and only a few permit holders are allowed to venture close to the whales… any other vessel has to stay 300 metres away.
And that includes the flotilla of bright yellow kayaks that paddle into view… if you like your whale watching with a touch of adrenalin, Walker Bay Adventures’ two-hour kayak adventures are just the ticket. Paddlers keep a safe distance from the whales, but it’s not uncommon to get friendly with a few inquisitive Cape Fur seals and sea birds.
Kayak tours set off from the Old Harbour, where we wander down to explore the quaint museum that traces the history of the town. I discover that it was a wandering shepherd by the name of Hermanus Pieters lent his name to this now decidedly upmarket village, and it wasn’t all that long ago that whaling contributed to the town’s coffers. Happily, nowadays it’s big-spending tourists – not blubber pots – that do the same.
Feeling peckish? There are plenty of pavement cafés near the Old Harbour, but the restaurant with the best views in town is Bientang’s Cave. Legend has it that the cave was named after the last known ‘strandloper’ to have lived here, feasting on seafood at the turn of the 19th century. Perhaps not much has changed, as tourists flock to this eatery where whales breach, spy-hop and lob tail 100 metres from your plate of Surf & Turf.
And the classic combo of land and sea is part of the appeal of a visit to Hermanus in whale season. A handful of nearby golf courses attract weekend swingers, twitchers and fynbos fundis head to the Fernkloof Nature Reserve above town and sailors launch their boats down on the Kleinrivier lagoon.
Sybarites like me, however, head for heaven.
For while the seaside visitors are big and brash with their aerial antics, the wines of the Hemel-en-Aarde valley are all about understated elegance. It’s a big ask to live up to a name like ‘Heaven and Earth’, but the wines grown in this piece of paradise do it with ease.
Cradled between Babilonstoring peak and the Kleinriviersberg this picturesque valley may be carpeted in trellised vines and pastoral fields, but started life as a somewhat less bucolic escape. In 1817 Moravian missionaries established South Africa's first leper colony here, and it was home to hundreds of patients until they were shipped to Robben Island in 1845!
Today though the valley is all about good wine and even better food. Boutique wineries dot the hillsides and, without the crowds of Franschhoek or Stellenbosch, it’s the kind of place where the winemaker may greet you at the cellar to explain how the sea breezes make this one of South Africa’s premier cool-climate wine regions.
We take a bottle of Bouchard Finlayson’s Missionvale Chardonnay and head to our late-lunch at the delightful Mogg’s Country Cookhouse, where Julia Mogg greets us like old friends as the door of her quaint cottage restaurant. Smoke curls from the chimney, tables spill onto the patio and beyond the lawns a field of lavender runs down to a lake. Julia’s mum Jenny bustles through from the kitchen carrying plates of lamb shank and seafood curry, as Julia hurries off to welcome new guests.
In the distance, the deep blue waters of the Indian Ocean shine back up the valley. Perhaps it’s that second glass of chardonnay, but I swear I can almost hear Pasika blowing on his kelp horn, and see a few whales jumping for joy. Whether you visit for heavenly whale watching or the fruits of the earth, there’s nothing you won’t love about winter in Hermanus.
The popular Hermanus Whale Festival takes place from 30 September to 4 October 2011. Visit www.whalefestival.co.za.
Hermanus Tourism Bureau
www.hermanusaccommodation.co.za
028 312 2629
First published in Signature magazine, 2011
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Fri 19 Aug 2011 |
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How stone saved a thirsty city |
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It’s a sunny day in Cape Town; the middle of autumn and the summer southeasters are happily at bay. The pipers of the Black Watch Scottish Regiment are bleating along a heavy stone walkway to where the assembled dignitaries stand around congratulating themselves. The clank and hiss of a steam-powered crane rumbles in the background, belching smoke into the crisp Cape air.
With the mayoral chain around his neck, Sir John Woodhead watches closely as the final stone of the dam that bears his name is lowered into place. It’s the first day of May in 1894; “the year of the diamond jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Victoria,” reminds the stone inscription.
The stone settles and the pipers resume their bleating, as the tannin-stained waters start to fill the 955-megalitre Woodhead Reservoir. After years of thirsty uncertainty, the construction of Cape Town’s first major catchment means the burgeoning city won’t run dry next summer.
But it’s a long journey home for Woodhead and his fellow town councillors. For this engineering masterpiece is in perhaps the last place you’d expect to find Cape Town’s first water reservoir. It – and the four other large dams that were built at the turn of the 19th century – are all on the summit of Table Mountain.
Water has long been key to the growth of Cape Town, and even today the city’s limited water is– if you’ll excuse the pun – a source of concern for town planners. But water has been both bane and boon for the Mother City: when Jan van Riebeek first sailed the Drommedaris into Table Bay, the indigenous Khoi people called this place Camissa; the ‘place of sweet waters’. With a name like that, who wouldn’t choose to set up a refreshment station here to supply the passing ships of the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie.
Centuries passed, the city grew, and the springs that gurgled towards Table Bay were being drunk faster than they flowed. By the late-1800s the situation was becoming desperate. A pipeline funnelled river water from the mountain to the city, but in the summers the city taps were in danger of running dry. A bold plan was required, which is how a small a small army of labourers, led by Scottish stonemasons, came to be hard at work on the summit of Table Mountain.
Fast-forward 110 years and the mountaintop dams that were the fruits of their labours are one of the most surprising discoveries for the first-time walker on the ‘back table’ of Cape Town’s most famous landmark.
It’s a fascinating piece of city history that’s best explored by wandering up the steep concrete track from Constantia Nek. As you crest the rise above Rooikatkloof the road flattens out and the three smallest dams sparkle into view.
De Villiers arrives first, although it was the last dam to be completed on the mountain, finally filling up in 1910. But it is the diminutive Alexander Dam around the corner that lays claim to being the oldest on the mountain.
When completed in 1893 it stored a ‘paltry’ 126 000 000 litres of dark mountain water, stained to the colour of strong tea by the tannic roots of indigenous fynbos. Along with neighbouring Victoria, these three supplied the then-independent Wynberg Municipality, which was suffering its own water shortages for the sprawling southern suburbs.
From Victoria, the path is a veritable walk in the park. Gently undulating across the flat back table, the roadside is full of rustling restios; over 100 species of these sturdy grasses are found on the summit’s boggy flats. Throughout the year you’ll also spot the bright red tubes of the Fire Heath Erica, while the small flowers of the Pink Hairy Heath spring to life between November and April.
Birdlife thrives up here too, with Familiar Chats, the Cape Rock Thrush and the Ground Woodpecker a common sight on the rocky outcrops. As you wander, keep an eye heavenward for the jet-black Verreaux’s Eagles that are sometimes seen soaring along the cliff tops.
Around a bend or two, and the largest dams on the mountain quickly reveal themselves. The immaculate stonework of the Woodhead Reservoir is worth admiring, with two-ton blocks quarried from the abundant local sandstone. Be sure to lean your head over the 37-metre-high wall to admire the tapering curve, carefully crafted to fit the rocky valley.
To the east, the hewn stones of the Hely Hutchinson reservoir hold back nearly a billion litres of water. While most of the work for the Woodhead reservoir was done by hand, mule and cart, for the Hely Hutchinson an entire steam train was dismantled, whisked to the mountaintop by cableway, and then reassembled to ferry materials to the building site.
At the peak of construction, around 400 unskilled labourers toiled here each day. With the project – delayed for a time by the Anglo-Boer war – stretching over six years, it wasn’t long before a choir, football team and even a mandolin band were formed to entertain workers after a day at the rock face.
It’s a history easily discovered in the small Waterworks Museum at the northern end of the Hely Hutchinson wall. Opened each day by the dam-keepers on their morning rounds to check the water levels, the steam engine that never made it back down the mountain takes pride of place. Along the walls, antique instruments – from cast-iron tools to delicate brass Venturi meters – quietly collect dust; exquisite artworks of a mechanical age.
The steam-driven crane is put outside to rust away under the mountain’s famous tablecloth, while stone plaques hailing the likes of Sir John quietly weather in peace. Fading photographs and photocopied records tell the tales of the sweat and ingenuity that managed to craft dams on a mountaintop. They’re stories that should be told and admired, but are instead all but forgotten by the citizens below. Perhaps not unlike the dams themselves; dams that saved a thirsty city from its own success.
First published in the Business Day, July 2011
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Standing on the ramparts of what’s left of Fort Jesus, it seems that Mombasa is a city confused.
Kenya’s second largest metropolis is home to close on a million people, but the winding streets of the Old Town that lie below me could be from some far-flung village. Minarets, Hindu temples and Christian churches crowd the skyline, crossing swords with modern high-rises.
It’s an island, yet it clings to the mainland with packed ferries and bustling bridges. On the outskirts of town stout men wheel Herculean carts of fresh produce to market as if in some medieval township, while dapper businessmen speed by in gleaming German sedans.
With the largest port in East Africa the harbour dominates life and commerce in Mombasa. The Likoni ferry waits – forever, it seems – for ships to pass, and all roads eventually lead to the water. And as with every harbour town there’s a bustle on the waterfront where hawkers and touts cajole for a sale beneath the ivory towers of the prosperous city centre. It’s a wildly contradictory place where the line between the haves and have-nots is drawn in the roads of mud or tar.
Yet most holidaymakers simply rush through all of this en route to the beach resorts flanking Mombasa to the north and south; sun-lovers seeking loungers, scuba diving and coral-fringed waters.
While it’s tempting to spend your holiday in a haze of the local dawa cocktail – vodka, lime and honey crushed over ice; delicious – you need to spend a day or two beyond the resorts to scratch beneath the surface of the real Mombasa.
And the thick stone walls of Fort Jesus are the best place in town to discover why this city is perhaps better known by its Swahili name; Kisiwa Cha Mvita. The ‘Island of War’.
Kenyan history textbooks trace the origin of the city to 900AD, but it was only when Vasco da Gama arrived in 1598 – bearing trade agreements and Catholicism – that things got interesting. For the next 300 years the Portuguese, Omani Arabs and – eventually – British took turns fighting each other for control of a trading port rich in ivory, gold and slaves.
It was the Portuguese who built Fort Jesus, but after being attacked, sacked and reclaimed many times over the centuries it now lies peacefully at the mouth of Mombasa’s Tudor Creek.
Cannons designed in 1759 still guard the parapets of San Mateus Bastion, while the Arabic inscription over the main entrance – “Verily we have given to you a clear victory” – records the Sultan of Oman’s 1698 rout of the Portuguese after a two-year siege. The island of war, indeed.
It’s early in the day and I’m in no mood to hang around for the tacky ‘sound and light show’ that illuminates the Fort three times a week, so we take our photos and head off into the Old Town.
In the shadow of Fort Jesus, the byzantine alleyways of the Old Town are the heart and soul of Mombasa. The Islamic influence is heavy in this part of the city, and the muezzin’s call echoes across the red tiled rooftops.
Winding lanes snake between gently fading Arabesque buildings; some still bedecked with fretwork balconies to protect the modesty of the ladies within. Although many of these ornate balconies have been ripped off in the name of modernisation, the remaining few are protected by a preservation order and the Mombasa Old Town Conservation Society is encouraging the renovation of dilapidated buildings.
As we walk, the scent of cardamom and cloves floats out of spice shops and follows in our footsteps. Carpenters carve out furniture in gloomy workshops and down at the old docks fresh fish from along the coast is unloaded from lateen dhows.
Helpful maps with recommended walking routes are posted at regular intervals in the Old Town, but remember this area is notorious for touts and pickpockets. Chances are you’ll be hassled as you walk, so either hire an accredited guide to lead the way or get ready to bat away ‘helpers’ looking for a quick shilling.
You get used to holding your own in Mombasa though. This is a country built on bargaining, and from the grimy tables of the MacKinnon fresh produce market to the beach vendors flogging colourful khangas you should never – ever – pay the asking price.
The same applies on bustling Biashara Street; the best place in town to stock up on these colourful lengths of traditional Kenyan cloth. Dozens of fabric shops line both sides of Biashara, so where you choose to buy comes down to pitting your bargaining skills against the Indian shop owners.
Souvenirs packed and shillings parted with, we wander back into the heart of modern Mombasa. I’d hoped to visit the Akamba Woodcarving Co-operative on the road to the airport – where craftsmen from the Akamba tribe hand-carve everything from stylish bowls to the ubiquitous wooden giraffes – but the heat is taking its toll and it’s time for a late lunch at the Tamarind.
After a sweaty walk down Moi Avenue, we find our taxi driver already waiting for us beneath Mombasa’s most obvious landmark.
An ‘M’ for Mombasa or a monument to royalty? Whichever you prefer, the double tusks towering over the city’s main thoroughfare have become one of Mombasa’s most recognisable sights. Erected in 1952 to commemorate the visit of Queen Elizabeth the once-gleaming tusks are showing their age. Faded and – like so much of Mombasa – crying out for a lick of paint, they’re a piece of history tarnished by the passage of time in the tropics.
From slave-trading Arabs to travelling monarchs there’s a rich history to be explored in this city, and friendly locals eager to share it. But the dusty streets of Kisiwa Cha Mvita are a far cry from the sanitised beachfront resorts: you’ll need to chat to the locals, work up a sweat and get your shoes a bit dirty. But put in a little effort, leave the lounger behind, and you’ll soon savour a taste of this colourful, confused island of war.
First published in Horizons magazine; July 2011 |
Watching ice melt has never been high on my list of leisure activities. It just seems like there are better things one could be doing with one’s time… particularly when you’re slap-bang in the southern heart of South America. But as they say, when in Rome; which is how my wife and I ended up on a bus headed west through the steppes of Patagonia.
“We’ll spend about four hours at Perito Moreno,” our guide shouted in her sultry Spanish-tinged English; battling to be heard over the rowdy backpackers at the rear of our small tour bus. That’s the problem with joining affordable excursions from backpackers’ hostels. The backpackers.
Nonetheless, as we strained to hear our guide pointing out the fauna and flora of the plains surrounding the town of El Calafate – the indigenous Austral parakeet is the world’s most southerly parrot species, by the by – there was a curious buzz of excitement at the prospect of spending one-sixth of a day watching ice turn into water.
Now admittedly the Perito Moreno glacier isn’t your garden-variety ice sculpture. Thirty kilometres long, roughly 60 metres thick, nearly two million cubic metres… it is one of the world’s few advancing glaciers. So perhaps no surprise that a morning at the ice-face would quickly turn into the runaway highlight of our whirlwind trip through the home of the gaucho.
As our bus rolled along to the overloud chatter of Aussie backpackers and the beat of Argentine pop, away to our right icebergs floated by on the blue waters of Lago Argentino – Argentina’s biggest lake, and the third-largest in South America.
It’s Lago Argentino that keeps the Perito Moreno at bay, playing an eternal argy-bargee with what is far and away the tourist highlight of the Parque Nacional los Glaciares. With a name like that, there’s no chance of being surprised at what lies around the final bend of the RP-11 as it heads towards Chile.
And predictable though it may be, that first glimpse of the Perito Moreno is – quite simply – jaw dropping; an ice-lolly that will stop you in your tracks.
Layers of cobalt, aquamarine and – what could easily be – Bombay Sapphire-infused ice lie in layer upon layer; a sandwich of frozen water up to 80 metres thick. On the surface, the ice river stretches from deep in the Andes like a hundred-lane motorway. The high Andean snows compacted down to form the bulldozer that ploughs into Lago Argentino. Slashed by crevasses and razor-sharp seracs, it’s as untamed a landscape as you could ask for.
On the viewpoint at Península de Magallanes this overcast early-summer morning, the parking lot is already full of tour buses like ours. The boardwalks that criss-cross the viewing area – separated from the glacier by little more than fifty metres – are teeming with visitors.
But, incredibly, there’s silence.
Bar the occasional click of a camera shutter or rustle of raincoats (be warned, even summer in Patagonia can get damp), everyone is speaking in hushed tones. Even the backpackers have shut up. This cathedral of ice demands it; wagging a finger at us all to keep quiet and pay our respects. To sit and appreciate the ancient creaks and groans which echo across as the ice battles the lake. Every few minutes the glacier wins, and a towering column of ice cracks, teeters, hesitates… then collapses into the waters below in an enormous column of sub-zero spray.
Against all expectations, it’s riveting. We sit, we watch, we gasp. We wait for the next fall. This is our honeymoon, but my wife and I barely speak a word. The Patagonian sierra finches chatter around us, but otherwise we only have eyes for the ice.
After what is surely only a few minutes our tour guide is back: “Your four hours are finished, the bus is leaving now. We must go.”
Four hours of melting ice and we’re desperate for more. We regret not signing up for the glacier trekking, where crampon-clad tourists toast their walk with a whisky on the rocks; the ‘rocks’ courtesy of the glacier. There’s no time for a boat trip from Puerto Bandera to the glacier face either; although it’s the best way to get up close and personal with a few thousand years of snow. No time, must dash, have to go… it seems there are never enough hours in the day to do everything you want to when travelling.
Destination? The end of the world.
But we have a plane to catch, and it’s the icebergs floating on Lago Argentino that are our last view of the steppes as our Aerolineas Argentinas jet climbs and banks to the south. Destination? The end of the world.
Nervous flyers would do well to take the bus if they want to visit Ushuaia. An hour or two after leaving El Calafate our jet dodges snow-capped Andean peaks, tries not to ditch into the wind-whipped Beagle Channel and skirts the edge of Chilean airspace before bouncing onto the runway at Ushuaia. Welcome to the most southerly town in the world.
Ushuaia (pronounced oo-swei-ya) is a workaday town unlikely to win any architecture awards, but for adventurous travellers looking for a taste of untamed Patagonia this little settlement on the big toe of the Americas is your gateway to heaven.
Clinging to the bootstraps of the continent at 54° south, this is as close as you’ll get to Antarctica without forking out a fistful of dollars for an expedition cruise.
And, as with most seaside towns, life in Ushuaia revolves around the quayside so there are few better places to blow away the cobwebs than a wander along the Muelle Tourístico.
We envy the Antarctic cruise ships heading off into the wild seas of the Drake Passage, but our wallets will only stretch to a few hours on one of the many sightseeing boats that cruise the chilly Beagle Channel.
The winds here blow straight up from Antarctica, and snow can fall at any time of the year. But tempting as it is to sip hot chocolate down below, it pays to wrap up warm and brave the upper-deck… you’ll be rewarded with sightings of black-browed albatrosses, giant petrels, Magellanic penguins and – if you’re lucky – orca.
Some sightseing boats also cruise west towards Ushuaia’s main attraction; the Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, where we find ourselves the following day. From the dock at Lapataia Bay (you can also hop on a regular minibus shuttle from town, as we did) the park offers 630km² of dramatic coastline, pristine mountains, ancient beech forests and lakes overflowing with trout and salmon.
We wander happily along the sea shore; admiring beaver dams, beech forests and sea lions cavorting in quiet coves. You could happily spend anywhere from an afternoon to a week exploring the network of well-marked paths that traverse the lower reaches of the park.
But as I say, time is always in short supply and our day in the park flies by all too quickly. There’s still the historic homestead of Estancia Harberton, with its cetacean research station, to explore. And the original inhabitants to meet at the Museo Yámana Aborígenes Fueguinos. And a walk up to the Glaciar Martial to tackle. In season, the ski runs here offer an easy morning on the slopes too, or you can hop on the shuttle bus to Cerro Casto where you’ll find 15 kilometres of piste.
Those will all have to wait, we decide over dinner, for next time. Ensconced at a window table at the quaint seafront restaurant Volver, the white horses on the Beagle Channel gallop away like the time on our honeymoon itself.
While these snow-capped peaks and ancient glaciers appear immune to the passing of time, sadly we are not. The end of the world, the end of a holiday. But certainly not the end of my fascination with Patagonia. To steal a phrase from Winston, this honeymoon taste of southern Argentina wasn’t really the end. Perhaps just the end of the beginning… of more than one love affair.
First published in the Sunday Times, Travel & Food, July 2011 |
Tue 12 Jul 2011 |
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It's Brighton, by George! |
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It’s all thanks to George.
Not just any George, mind you, but King George IV. Or, to be more precise, George before he became George. When he was just the Prince of Wales, the Prince Regent; before he took the throne on the death of his mad father.
For while most of Britain’s south coast is filled with retirement villages better known for their blue rinse than blue seas, Brighton has always revelled in its offbeat pleasure-seeking charm.
And thanks to old George, who made the town his escape from the stuffy Royal Court in London, it’s long been a seaside town with a taste for the hedonistic. More is always more in Brighton, it seems. From the flamboyant bars of gay-friendly Kemp Town to the indie shops that line hidden corners in the winding Lanes, there’s an energetic anything goes feel about this Sussex town.
Even the famous pier – one of England’s finest – has a jaunty feel about it, its flags flapping in the distance as I wander along Brighton’s lengthy seafront promenade. My bags have been dropped at the hotel and it’s time to blow away some long-haul cobwebs.
The town’s famous promenade is lined with beachfront cafés, but most are deserted on this blustery grey day and I find only a few day-trippers sipping tea behind the double-glazing of The Bandstand Bistro. I pull my jacket collar up around my neck and keep walking: past the merry-go-round doing its best to be cheerful against leaden skies, and beyond the boules court; France lies just over the horizon, after all. Grand squares of Regency architecture gaze out over the pebble beach that tumbles down to grey seas; a mirror of the clouds on this overcast Tuesday.
My stomach is rumbling like the rolling pebbles when I finally reach what I’ve been looking for: the humble, but famous, Brighton Smokehouse. I have just one night on the coast before heading back to London, and it seems like any good visit to Brighton should commence with some crustacean.
Jack and Linda Mills have been smoking fresh fish and crab here for 14 years, and it’s far and away the best place in town to enjoy a traditional crab sandwich. A small deli and kitchen crouches in an alcove under the promenade, while the wooden smokehouse sits proudly right on the edge of the beach.
“My parents had a smokehouse in town in the ‘30s, but that burnt down,” Jack tells me, as he cuts thick slices from a bloomer loaf.
After years as a fisherman, he decided it was time for terra firma and opened the rejuvenated Smokehouse: “We get all our fish and crabs from the local boats; either next door at Newhaven, or just down the coast at Shoreham. It all goes into the small smokehouse out there, and we only use the traditional oak and apple shavings.”
Jack whips together a crab sandwich – the filling a deep brown from the flavoursome shell meat – and I take a seat on a small bench outside. There’s a weak sun trying to break through the clouds, but it’s still a quiet day on the beach; just a few flapping deckchairs to keep me company.
The rich smoky sandwich (a steal at £3.20) disappears in a few bites, and with last morsels licked and napkin thrown away it seems only fitting to take a turn inside the Brighton Fishing Museum next door. Pay a little homage to the men who brought that crab from seafloor to my sandwich, I think to myself.
For Brighton has long been a town where life revolves around the sea.
The village that grew into Brighton is first recorded in the Domesday Book of 1086 as Brighthelmstone, and was for centuries just a humble fishing village.
That, however, was before the previously unheard-of fashion for ‘sea-bathing’ took off in the mid-1700s.
By the middle of the century canopied ‘bathing machines’ appeared on the beach, ready to be wheeled into the water to protect the modesty of bathers. Before long, fisherfolk were spending more time helping day-trippers into the sea than helping the fish out of it.
The age of seaside tourism had begun, and when the Prince Regent – yes, there’s George IV again – expressed his pleasure at ‘sea bathing’ the resort future of Brighton was assured.
It’s a chilly old day today though, and there’s not much chance of a dip in the sea for me, but on hot summer weekends this is a popular day out for overheated Londoners. I spend another hour or so browsing the collection of faded photographs and fishy exhibits before strolling off down to the pier.
For the pleasures of salt-water dipping could only entertain visitors for so long, and by the Victorian age the era of grand seaside piers was in full swing.
Brighton’s Palace Pier – to give it its proper name – officially opened in 1899, nearly 70 years after the Prince Regent’s death, but I’m sure he would have approved of its pleasure halls.
While stormy seas grab at the pier’s cast-iron feet, the flashing ‘amusements’ that are the hallmark of all British piers are a popular attraction here. The ‘Tin Pan Alley’ of sideshow games is filled with strutting teenage boys and smiling girlfriends clutching stuffed whales, while the echo of a bingo announcer wafts out of the main amusement hall. At the back, the Galaxia and Horror Hotel rides rumble around and around.
There’s nothing understated about the Pier, and only the ornate iron railings and fluttering Union Jacks still hint at the elegance that made this and other English piers famous around the world in the Victorian age of empire.
But when it comes to over-the-top architecture, nothing in Brighton – or much of England, for that matter – can top the Regent’s Palace.
The Prince was rather fond of his wine, women and song, and the Regent’s Palace was his ostentatious temple to pleasure in all its guises.
Built for the Prince Regent in fits and starts between 1787 and 1823, it’s the 1822 design by John Nash that astounds visitors today. Ornate Indian domes sit plump on top of the main building, while Islamic minarets tower above the quaint English garden that surrounds Brighton’s most popular museum.
Through the front doors (entrance is £9.80), the richly decorated interior has splashes of both Chinese and Mughal influence. George IV was a passionate music lover and the plush Music Room hosted the king’s own band, as well as musical greats like the Italian composer Rossini, who performed here in 1823. Throughout the elaborate Banqueting Room and royal reception rooms the décor is a riot of Asian-inspired murals, tapestry and artworks that couldn’t possibly seem more out of place on the edge of the English Channel. And that’s precisely what makes it so loveably eccentric.
After the blaze of colours and textures I give my eyes a rest with a gentle wander up to my favourite corner of Brighton.
The cobbled Lanes that meander down from Brighton station (itself a landmark of the town’s history, opening in 1840) were once a maze of fishermen’s cottages and merchants, and are today perhaps the city’s most charming neighbourhood.
In the upper Lanes, I find myself drawn into the indie clothing outlets and knick-knack boutiques; antique warrens and bo-ho jewellery shops. Closer to the Palace, and the worthwhile Brighton Museum, the feel goes distinctly upmarket with Dolce & Gabbana, The White Company and boutique chocolatiers lining the Lanes.
Despite the price tags The Lanes retain all the character of old Brighthelmstone, and around almost any corner there’s an underground record store, bohemian coffee shop or cosy pub to discover.
It’s early evening by the time I stumble upon the Seven Stars; a pub that – like Brighton – is endearing in a suitably schizophrenic way. There is English bitter on tap and Victorian pressed ceilings above, but the music is ‘70s soul and a queue quickly forms for the Wii console in the corner.
It’s a pub for all ages, with a menu for anyone who likes their food farm-reared and local. Here the eggs are free-range, and the beef come from nearby fields.
I savour a pint of Young’s Special Bitter – “We’ve got the best bitter in Sussex,” the bartender promises me – over a steak and ale pie, and debate another for a nightcap. Why not, I think, as I wave the waiter over. Old George would probably be proud.
SIDEBOX: TRAVEL TIPS
• Where to stay: There is no shortage of accommodation in Brighton, from family-run B&Bs to boutique hotels. As a rule, the closer you are to the seafront and the Regent’s Palace the more you’ll pay. The historic Lansdowne Place Hotel & Spa is a well-priced option, some 10 minutes’ walk from the Pier. Visit www.lansdowneplace.co.uk.
• Getting there: British Airways flies daily from Cape Town and Johannesburg to London Heathrow. From Heathrow, take the Underground to London Victoria for regular train services to Brighton, about an hour away. Visit www.ba.com and www.nationalrail.co.uk.
• Web: Plan your trip at www.visitbritain.com or www.visitbrighton.com.
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Or just a sign of commercialism heading south? Refuse to shop at Melissa's nowadays: overpriced and average