Cycling the hills in Surrey

Summer in England is such a pleasure (when the sun is shining, that is). Flower boxes and the smell of roses everywhere. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit in the tiny village of Ewhurst, which lies between Cranleigh and Shere in Surrey. Here my cousin and his wife share the village with stars like Eric Clapton and Kenney Jones of The Who. Not that they've met them - yet.

Cycling seems to be a popular pastime when surrounded by the Surrey Hills and there are many stunning cycling routes throughout Surrey. The Hills have been classified an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, a title which is given to rural areas in the UK valued for its landscape aesthetics. I quickly decide to join in and explore the area by bike. After all, if Surrey is good enough for the 2012 Olympics Road Cycling event then cycling in Surrey is good enough for me.

Reasonably close to Herman and Lalie’s cottage in Ewhurst, lies a stretch of MoD (Ministry of Defence) land. This unspoilt area is set aside by the Ministry of Defence for Armed Forces training. However, they also share the rolling hills with the general public, who use the footpaths to walk their dogs and, as in our case, to cycle through the woods.

After a breakfast of fresh strawberries, scones and clotted cream, Lalie and Herman take the lead through the streets of Ewhurst. They easily cycle up the steep, muddy slope from their cottage in Ewhurst to the MoD park. It is clear that they do this often and have managed to conquer the hill. I am relieved and a little embarrassed by the time I eventually reached the top, but more than happy to see that the hills from here onwards look a little gentler.

Soon we are surrounded by leafy trees, ferns and lush grassy vegetation dotted with white and yellow flowers. We also pass the ruins of a small fort and quite a few other cyclists, joggers and hikers before we have to stop to fix Herman’s tire. Good timing, as we've reached a view point and it's worth lingering. The view from here crosses quite a few counties and, says Lalie, on a clear day you can see the London skyline.

Later we toast to our cycling efforts with some fruit ale, on the grass under the apple tree outside their cottage. Time for a well deserved meal of beef bourguignon and salad, with fresh herbs from the English garden. Ah, on days like this I do tend to agree with Bill Bryson.

The car boot sale treasure hunt in Surrey

It was with the utmost curiosity that I agreed to join my cousin and his wife to a car boot sale in Surrey on a surprisingly sunny Saturday morning. I took the 30 minute train ride from London to Guildford and imagined a little patch just out of town with a few antiques floating around. So I was admittedly overwhelmed with the scale of what I saw when we arrived. Not that this is the biggest car boot sale in England by any chance.

As far as the eye could see, cars were parked in rows on a grassy field; car boots open, trestle tables out. Some even had their goods packed out on blankets on the grass or hanging from industrial rails. Lalie and Herman clearly know their way around these markets and headed off with a mission to look for specific items that they had in mind. I found myself wandering aimlessly between collections of mismatched silver cutlery, well loved My Little Ponies and some velvety Sense and Sensibility dresses.

My forehead must have spelled confusion when I saw an old toilet seat. Lalie explained that some of these oddities often become fashionable, such as the current trend of using old washing basins as flower pots in the English garden. It was certainly hard to believe that anyone would want to buy some of the trash at this trunk sale. Yet the variety of goods was mind blowing. From tools and bicycles to bird baths and broaches.

Once I managed to gather myself I figured I might as well hunt for a few treasures. It was easy to bargain and since it was already almost time to pack up many things was selling out for £1. Such as the tiny Finnish porcelain tea cup which was my first buy. I also found an anthology of love poems, a pair of vintage leather gloves, an Audrey Hepburn style head scarf, a silver butterfly ring, a shiny bracelet and a dress suit.

All for £14. I cannot think of anywhere in the world where I could find better value. Or have more fun discovering pretty things and the stories that make them interesting. Lalie found her bird feeder and Herman got a tool box for his garage, at a fraction of what it would cost new. Fabulous way to shop indeed. I will be back!

Corset shopping in Camden. Or not.

The only thing I really, really, wanted to buy in London was a corset. See, I just don’t need the Kate doll, the vintage gloves and the God Save McQueen scarf.

An hour glass shape, however, that; of course, is something I do need (want? whatever). At the end of the 20th century women lashed out at the corset and rebelled against forcing their bodies into a shape that pleased men. I pretty much think that stuffing myself into such a theatrical fashion item would please me more than anyone else, for that matter. I know it hurts but there are few things as much fun as donning some false eyelashes, glitter and feathers and indulging in a few flirtatious moves. Bring on the burlesque.

In London corsets go back way beyond the Victorian and Edwardian eras so I thought it would be quite the cultural experience to shop for one. After all, I had done the Big Ben, the Tate, Madame Taussauds, Harrods, all on previous trips, tick, tick tick – and was up for something a little more interesting this time round.

So, besides a full time working week or two in this busy town (it was quite the challenge trying to coordinate the tubes, trains and buses to a time schedule on the way to the office and back!) this was going to be my week of finding a corset somewhere in the city.

And yet – no such luck. Google wasn’t much of a help either as most of the stores I tried to seek out closed or moved. Admittedly I did not have all the time in the world to look around. My last attempt was a general stroll around Camden early evening hoping to stumble upon a little corset shop in a side street somewhere before they all close, but no. No corset for me.

I did, however, find The End of the World (see picture), at the end of a long week, in London’s Camden Town. A most fitting conclusion to the inevitable drama that ensues when I. Just. Can’t. Have. What. I. Really. Really. Want.

Parks make people nicer

Public parks and gardens are what make big world cities liveable. Yet too often we become so absorbed in modern life that no thought is spared for the greenery that breathes life into our world.

Of course, nature isn't always green. If you're lucky enough to live somewhere with four seasons, you'll be spoilt with autumn leaves and spring blossoms. These are delightful for the soul and mine feels especially lifted to experience London's red and yellow (and all the shades in between) oak leaves this year.

Kim and I are taking her son, who is also my godchild, for a stroll through a small park around the corner from their house in South Bromley (yes, I finally got my visa!). There are lots of mommies with prams around in this London suburb and I think it's an absolute blessing to be able to raise kids close to nature, even when living in a big city.

Nature not only aids healing, reduces stress and improves brain functions and vitality - but it also makes people nicer, recent studies at the University of Rocester in the US prove. Simply looking at a "painting of roses" improves the psychological wellbeing of a human being. The study also shows that artificial environments make people more selfish and focused on wealth and fame.

We can't always get away from the industrialised modern world but it makes sense that we need nature to be soothed and healed from the daily grind. Life these days always requires a bit of compromise but it's great when the government of a country looks out for the wellbeing of their people by creating natural spaces for all generations to relish.

Now go, get out and contemplate a patch of nature. You may just find yourself thoroughly nicefied!

Good old fashioned Spanish fare in Soho

London is hardly a food lovers paradise and after paying too much for everything in Dubai I'm not keen on a Conran cliché. So my friend Kim suggests tapas and in an attempt not to disappoint, her fiancé asks around at work for some recommendations.

When we pass by James' office Kim makes sure to cross question his colleague. He stands by Café Espana in Soho, "I've been going there for years and if you're in it for the food and the atmosphere and not the salmon coloured table cloths you will love it. The house wine is not bad either. "

There's already a small queue by the time we arrive at the tapas bar in Old Compton Street, around the corner from Picadilly Circus. We decide to squeeze inside and share a bottle of Spanish rosé while we wait. The tables are arranged cosily and plates of simple sardines, calamari, patatas bravas and bread are abundant. It's loud with laughter and typically Spanish waiters.

Soon our table is ready and we give in to what arrives at our table plentifully including the communal favourites of spanish omelette with chorizo, garlic calamari and, of course, wine. Everything is very informal and homely. Suddenly it feels like we're not in a big world city at all but somewhere at a small, even backwards town - where the waiters still laugh at everyone's drunken jokes and nobody is trying to be fanciful about the food.

I didn't know it was possible to have such a hearty budget meal right in the centre of London. How refreshing to find real old fashioned value.

Of course, if you're into perfect hygiene, up-to-the-minute service and the space to push your chair back then rather don't bother with Café Espana. The rest of us will be happy to take your seat.

Seeing off the witches in Portobello Road

The evil forces in Dubai have been managing to keep me and my personal internet connection separate. Petrified that I might tell the truth? Hm, let’s keep that for another blog post.

I’ve been very afraid over the last few months so when Halloween came, I was like, yeah, bring on those witches! Far away from some real scary experiences, my friend Andrea put me on the back of her moped and off we went in search of mushrooms and movie magic in Notting Hill’s Portobello Road.

The market is already buzzing at 11am and she admits that we should have jumped out of bed before the tourists. However we manage to push our way through the crowds, past the flower and vegetable stalls that seem to gain even more freshness from the slight drizzle. Antique silver, fur, handmade jewellery and then those giant namesake mushrooms…

“I’ll make chicken pie,” she says, picking leeks, fennel and mushrooms from the selection. Pie is the most loving food in the world (ok, cupcakes are a close second) and since love always conquers fear it becomes less and less likely that Halloween or any amount of evil that the Middle East can conjure up will even have an effect on me again.

Happily Portobello’d we follow our internal GPS back to the moped, past The Travel Bookshop that was made famous by the Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts silver screen romance. This is definitely a me-place and I’d like to linger but the chicken pie is calling louder.

And so it was; the girls laughing off their demons in London over a loving meal and an abundance of good red wine. That’s it then, if I can feel this much better out of Dubai, I’d have to say its ‘sorry but goodbye’.

The things that divide (and de-visa) us

We are not one.

As much as I would like to think that we are all more the same than we are different, there are way too many things that divide the human race. These days more than ever.

We fight wars. We discriminate. We enslave. This happens every day. In spite of great influences such as Madiba and Obama. There are people who take advantage of the rest of us, who try to find short cuts for their own personal gain and in doing so lets the whole human race down.

I am so disappointed by my fellow South Africans for producing fraudulent passports at the Home Affairs Office. The UK Border Patrol confiscated thousands such documents in the last year, some owned by wanted international criminals. What's just outrageous is that even Hollywood star Wesley Snipes had one until recently. Now hundreds of corrupt officials have been fired and new security measures have been put in place to save the status of the South African passport.

However, it's too little too late. A South African travel document is laughing stock these days and I've hit passport panic.

From 1 July 2009 South Africans need a visa to enter the UK. My passport is running out of pages and since the UK will not accept temporary or emergency South African passports because of security concerns, I now have to wait for a new one. There is no way to speed this process up and even though new technology have been put in place that allows Home Affairs to process passports within 10 days, it can still take up to six months.

This means I am entirely at their mercy. All I can do is wait, hope and pray that my new passport will be ready in time for me to make it to my godchild's christening and my 30th birthday gathering in London. I can't even imagine what it would feel like not being able to go because of a visa problem.

I love this world and everything it has to offer. Yet not being able to move freely within it is to me like being oxygen deprived.

Life and death in London

Perhaps I should count myself lucky that I missed the heavy snowfalls in London earlier this month as my friends tell me that they hardly left the house and couldn’t even go to work on some days. It’s zero degrees when I arrive and the air is fresh-fresh.

I’m here to meet my godchild. It’s the first time that I get to hold a baby and... what a strange feeling. Little Luke looks like a baby doll; only he likes to stretch his mouth into a big toothless smile and already knows how to put on a voice that would help him get anything from his mommy. I have never seen Kim so wholly besotted over someone, except perhaps the love of her life, James.

There’s an herb garden outside Kim and James’ place in Bromley South and there, right next to it, lies a giant ball of ice – the last remains of a snowman, says Kim. When we feel like a change from cuddling Luke in front of the TV, we decide to take him for a walk around the area. Bromley South is a suburb with lots of breathing space. It’s close enough to central London to still get a spark of its energy and far enough to feel a touch of the countryside.

Luke is dressed up like an Eskimo in all the knitwear from his grannies. The pram has a cover that keeps out the cold. I guess it’s true what they say – any weather is perfectly fine if you have the right gear. We pass Woolworths on the way and I notice that it’s all closed up. Kim says it went bankrupt because of the credit crunch and that it’s not the only store in trouble. Britons really are feeling the financial cold this year and not just a bit.

By the time I have to leave again I too am besotted over Luke. I thought 100% attention 100% of the time would be too much to ask from me but I suspect that babies have a free satellite connection to that maternal instinct.

I get a bit delayed on my train back to Gatwick airport as there is a death on the railway. This is a life and death visit which makes me remember all over again what a gift it is to be born into this world, what a miracle to survive into another day and that it is important to know that it won’t last forever.

Carpe Diem.

The dark side of London

Travelling alone is no mean feat. Yet sometimes that is what it takes to gain certain experiences and adventures. Some of which, admittedly, turn out to be undesirable.

Yes, it was a risk to make my tube and bus journey back to my hotel at Heathrow that late, but I was catching up with my friend Marisa (and time caught up with me). Luckily I did make the last bus from the tube station and double checked with the driver that he will drop me at the stop closest to the hotel. He agreed.

Next thing he stops in the middle of a very dark road in the middle of Middlesex and tells me to get off.

“Sorry, I made a mistake. This bus is not going to your stop.”

“So, how will I get back now?”

“Just wait at the bus stop across the road.”

So I did.

Not even a car passed by for a good fifteen minutes. Then a bus swooshed past with its lights off. I checked the bus schedule and found that my anxiety was justified. The last bus passed by here at 23:30. It was now 00:30.

With no airtime and no money (I spent my last pennies at the fabulous end-of-season sales in Oxford Street underneath the Chinese New Year lights) I was kind of left in the dark. The very, very dark.

Something moved in the bushes behind me. Should I follow the path through those crooked trees to the houses beyond? Will the witches get rid of me before I even reach a doorstep? The chill froze my screams and sprinted down my spine.

Eventually a lonesome taxi drove past. I lifted my hand. He stopped. When I heard his kind voice my tears came down like a rainstorm. I had never been that scared.

Sometimes I feel that my life has no weight. That I simply float through the world like a feather. But every time I find myself in a dangerous situation, an angelic figure appears to save me. There must be a reason why the higher powers want me to stick around.

That is why I will keep lifting my head and continue going where my soul guides me. Alone or not.

Seeing nothing in Manchester

“There is nothing to see in Manchester,” says my colleague as we touch down at the airport.

So I head for the streets anyway. It may be true that Manchester is a bit of a random city with no real centre or any of the spectacular sights that London has to offer, but it’s still fun to get lost in any city in the UK. There’s always a quaint little alley or at least a pub with good grub.

A few more adventurous colleagues decide to join me and soon we find ourselves next to the ‘Wheel of Manchester’ which caught our eye from afar. Six pounds later we’re on it and getting a 360 degree view of the Manchester skyline which sports at least a church tower or two. Ah, how I love to watch the world from above. The real thing is so much better than Google Earth.

Soon we find out that the Wheel is in fact transportable and only arrived in Manchester a few months ago. It’s the same one that used to be in Paris at the Champs Elysee for the last few years.

Ten minutes of enjoying sweeping sights left us feeling ravenous. We don’t have to walk far. Just around the corner we find a traditional pub that dates back to 1950, with colourful flowers in front of the windows. We’re all smiles for finding such a gem.

The specials board next to the bar at the Old Wellington says: “Try our traditional fish and chips” and I’m not in the mood to argue. While my colleagues’ chicken with bacon and cheese look pretty good, I am well happy with my beer battered fish. It’s been a while since I had some good chips too (I really can’t do McDonalds) and I smother them in salt and tomato sauce.

Of course, I can’t finish the large portion, especially considering that I am knocking it back with a pint. Of Strongbow and blackcurrant, not beer. My friend Kim in London introduced me to this drink and I have been happily guzzling it on all my UK trips. It’s not that I don’t drink beer, but I prefer Belgian.

With our happy tummies, we take to the streets of Manchester once more. We get lost and find ourselves again. We discover some wonderful wine bars next to the canal (definitely the neighbourhood where I would hang out should I ever live here) and end up at The Salisbury Ale House. We didn’t know that it was the most popular Goth bar in Manchester but we sure had an interesting time amongst the S&M wall decorations and studded black leathers.

We walk back through Canal Street where “Only Fools and Horses” was filmed. The comedy was recently voted Britain’s best in a poll by BBC. There are fairy lights in the trees along the walkway and festive people inside the numerous bars and clubs.

It starts dripping and we congratulate ourselves on our good timing. By the time we get back to the hotel the rain is making soothing sounds on my window pane and I sigh happily.

So there, what a wonderful day of seeing nothing in Manchester.