In loving remembrance of my friend Gail Pearson (1978-2021)

 

On January 23^rd of this year I lost one of my dearest friends. Having been diagnosed with a rare genetic disease some years ago, at the age of 42 her frail body just gave up. I have since been dealing with the loss by putting together some of my (and our) most treasured memories. It will not be of interest to many, but the people who knew her and loved her may enjoy some of what I have written below. Quite fittingly Gail’s last email to me ended with a beautiful poem that uncannily reflected her wild, happy spirit – I have included it at the end.

Her World…

Once having met Gail, you could never forget her. She was undoubtedly the most free-spirited, ditzy, intelligent, charmingly crazy, funny, sweet natured, full-of-life soul that I have ever known. She was, in some ways, the archetypal eccentric English lady of yesteryear. She loved tea and cake, cutesy cafes, picnics, sandwiches, hats, floral frocks (with stripey socks!), Marmite, punting, croquet, letter writing, gardens, folklore, castles, ruins, Carry-on films, scrapbooks, diaries, obscure museums, Victorian clothes, puppets, doll’s houses, vintage cars (she owned a gold MG called Flossie that was forever breaking down!), old toys, purple DMs, cagoules (also purple), theatre, storytelling, guinea pigs, art, music, classic novels and oxtail soup (quite a list!). She read voraciously, loved travelling (to quaint corners of England but also exotic countries far away), and she loved the sea and sun – preferably together. Beside from her wonderful partner Matt, the other great love of her life was Cambridge United, in fact she would dedicate a large part of each year to travelling to their away games – something I could never comprehend! Oh, and she also loved beer, old pubs, blowing bubbles, googly-eyed cards, Frida Kahlo, and Kate Moss! Yes, she loved them!

Her friends were important to her too, as were her family (she had recently become an aunt twice over) and in particular her younger sister Verity who was the light of her life. Wherever Gail went she would take her ‘best friend’ Timmy – a black threadbare puppet-dog – who probably needed a bath more than he’d care for! When we travelled to Libya together in 2009, Timmy came too and in fact on one occasion he was the star of the show – putting on a performance for his travel companions in the grand Greek amphitheatre of Cyrene! I was hysterical, Gail was too, and Timmy loved it!

Throughout her life Gail never erred from a steadfast, genuine kindness toward everyone and everything. She always saw the good in people and met the world with unfailing positivity, childlike curiosity, and joy. Even in the face of adversity she had an uncanny ability to transform unfortunate events into wildly comic tales. She would frequently repeat the story to me of when her boyfriend at uni left her for a ‘one-armed woman’ (!) and the story of when a few Royston ragamuffin boys shouted out to her: “Oi, you! Where ya going? The circus?!” to which she naively replied: “No, the station!” – Yes, our beloved Gail could be charmingly naive to the point of never really noticing snide comments, sniggers, or subtle knockdowns. Her dress sense was nothing short of gypsy-hippy-boho fabulous – gorgeously mis-matched colours, fabrics, styles, and accessories from the Edwardian-elegant to the downright shabby-absurd – and she could pull it off – no, she positively shone!

 

Our World…

I met Gail on my very first day at Essex University in October 1997. She was standing alone in our shared kitchen (on the eighth floor of Keynes Tower) dressed in something bright and floaty and stirring a frying-pan of mince (as she often did). She turned around, beamed at me, and said: “hello, I’m Gail.” From then on, we were close friends and would often hang out in each other’s rooms in the evenings or gang up against the two American girls in our flat who would call tea towels ‘dish rags’ (Gail thought that was insulting to them!). I would often walk past her room and see her sprawled out studying on the floor barely detectable amongst an over-flowing technicolour mess of clothes, history textbooks, food, and raggedy paraphernalia. She often went to sleep smeared in toothpaste ‘for her spots’, enjoyed licking Marmite off a spoon and took a dose of cod-liver oil before bed. And she was, alas, the only human being, I believe, who could peacefully sleep through a deafening, piercing campus tower fire alarm! We often attended our morning Enlightenment lectures together – both of us still drowsy from sleep (neither of us were morning people) and Gail still wearing her pyjamas with a holey jumper thrown over the top. In winter she’d wear the same but with at least five holey jumpers thrown on! If I was lucky, before ‘clubbing’, she would let me borrow her precious leather jacket which she said only half belonged to her as after finding it in a jumble sale for £1 she had to ask her dad to lend her 50p to buy it (which she never paid back).

Possibly the stand-out story of that first year was the night I tiptoed into her room in the early hours of the morning to ask if I could have some bread at the exact moment when a handsome Greek guy was about to make his move! I believe that she had wanted to get together with this guy for some time but after my crude interruption, alas, it was never to be – and I don’t think she ever quite forgave me!

We lived together in our second year of uni too, in a shared terraced house in Colchester, along with Emma and Jenny – my friends from college. It was a strange, somewhat troubled year domestically. I would often get woken up by Gail screeching with laughter in the street outside in the early hours of the morning and our neighbours would bang on the door complaining about raucous noise, but years later she would cheekily tease us for being ‘boring’ and how she would come home to find the three of us watching daytime TV and rubbing our heads! Gail also insisted on not contributing to the communal TV license and was adamant that I had stolen the microwave! Luckily our friendships all remained intact, albeit with varying configurations and a few bumps along the way.

Our 2009 holiday to Libya was one of the best adventures of my life – hysterical, crazy, fun, and breath-takingly beautiful from beginning to end. It deepened our friendship and created more moments of madness that would expand our unique, shared world. On the flight over we drove a group of business men mad by our incessant chatter and giggling (they were actually very cross), Gail enjoyed listening to me debating theology and feminism with our flirty tour guide, we took hundreds of photos beside old, crumbling, decorative doors (a shared passion!), sipped mint tea and smoothies in Tripoli, danced to techno music in the desert (another shared passion – deserts, not techno!), fell in love with the remote oasis Berber pre-Saharan city of Ghadames, held hands climbing sand dunes at sunset, posed with camels and almost died when the engine on our internal flight to Benghazi caught fire! And Gail always maintained that one of the funniest moments of her life was when I was dressed up in a traditional Libyan wedding dress – it was horrific – layer upon layer of thick, heavy fabric until I literally disappeared and had my head poking out of a diamond shaped opening. Gail got told off for laughing – that was also a common occurrence! And every time I reminded her of that she would tease me by reminding me of when I got told off (quite severely) for posing beside the graves in Highgate Cemetery – she absolutely loved that and mentioned it in her gorgeous creatively ingenious card-book she made for me on my 36^th birthday. She called it the ‘A-Z of Binky and Gail’ and it was filled with superb hand drawn pictures, photos, and cut-outs. It goes like this: ‘A’s for asking for bread in a moment of passion, B’s for Binky’s beautiful brown dress that’s always in fashion…M is for Matt and the stolen microwave. N is for New Year – in the bath we did rave!’ (yes, we celebrated the millennium together by standing in a bathtub in someone’s house in Streatham!).

In subsequent years we met up regularly and visited museums and exhibitions, usually in London. We’d often linger too long in the dressing up corner – Gaily looking like she had just stepped out of a Dickens novel complete with bonnets or street urchin clothes. A few times, with Emma, we spent weekends in the Gower Peninsula in Wales – hiking over the beach to the romantic ruins of Pennard Castle, sea-bathing (Gail literally turned blue!) and giggling. On two occasions we went to a ‘Living Literature’ event held at the University of London – one on Proust, the other Frankenstein. Both were sumptuous immersive events designed to capture the full sensory experience of the book and the age it was written in. Gail thoroughly looked the part each time and we enjoyed pretentiously floating from room to room in our sequined gowns, tasting odd concoctions and sipping cocktails inspired by the Belle Epoch!

Every year all of us girls and Richard (one of Gail’s closest friends from uni) would get together for a post-Christmas do (lovingly nicknamed ‘Febmas’, although I think twice it was more like ‘Maymas’) at my house and eat cake while swapping stories, reliving funny times from uni and generally catch-up and offering alternative perspectives on one another’s lives. The last time I saw Gail was Maymas 2019 when she visited me down here in Devon. Then lockdown happened, which was hard on her. She was a social, ‘outside’ person and loved going on train trips (with bags of food!), discovering new bands, being escorted out of CU football matches (!) etc. She spent her time at home writing epically long letters, reading, and recreating scenes of famous paintings using herself and household objects which she did exceptionally well! But lockdown robbed her of her last year and I will always regret that.

Gail was a ‘main event’ in the story of my life. She defined my time at university, and throughout our 23 years of friendship we encouraged each other to live authentically and play by our own rules. In a line by the Chinese poet Li Bai who she recently discovered; he writes: ‘I must make merry before the spring is spent’. Gail definitely made merry, she instinctively lived well, celebrated the ordinariness of life and made every day count. She navigated the world with her own brand of humour, wisdom, grace, and goofy glamour. Now she is gone, I will forever treasure the moments we shared, the fun we had and the irreplaceable friendship that kept us afloat. Her legacy will be the laughter. Her final words in her last email to me define her perfectly:

 

‘Whenever I sang, the moon swayed with me

Whenever I danced, my shadow went wild

Drinking, we shared our enjoyment together

Drunk, then each went off on his own

But forever agreed on dispassionate revels

We promised to meet in the far milky way’.

Li Bai (701-762)

{Musings on a Summer in Muscat, Oman}

 

Arrival

Ever since my extraordinary summer teaching in Syria in 2009 (documented here), I had longed for another summer school teaching experience in some far-flung corner of the Middle East. 2015 was the right time as I had just ended a long-term relationship (amicably) and was seeking horizons new, travel adventures and a break from my permanent teaching job in Reading (which became fairly frantic each summer). So off I went with my large neon-pink suitcase, laptop, camera, excitement and nerves…

Upon arrival in Muscat (after a sleepless overnight flight) I wearily stepped out of the plane and thought I was stepping into a furnace – literally. I had never known heat like it and never thought I would again (Uzbekistan in July 2019 would prove me wrong!), and the sunlight was blinding too. With armpit sweat running down my body and damp hair sticking to my burning face I ran down the metal steps off the plane and dived into the blissfully air-conditioned transit bus. The heat-indifferent Omanis all looked at me with a combination of glee and sympathy and enjoyed smiling at me while saying ‘Oman very much hot.’ My first impression turned out to be a true reflection of the country – Omanis are extremely friendly, warm hearted, far more easy-going than other Middle Eastern nationalities, and it is painfully hot, but thankfully air-conditioning is everywhere and heavenly.

Like in China, Italy and Syria, I distinctly remember being picked up at the airport and taken to my residence. Oman, from the passenger seat, was a dusty vision of white; sharply-square whitewashed buildings, expensive looking white cars and white-robed men (many with distended bellies) wearing dishdashas. The vision was beautifully exotic, and I already knew that I had made the right choice in coming here. The contingent of summer-school teachers (6 of us and all girls) were initially housed in a hotel, known as ‘Safeer Suites’, conveniently close to the British Council school and offices, before being paired up and allocated more permanent housing. This was an excellent idea – it gave us the chance to acclimatise, settle in, and get to know one another before teaching commenced. I shared an apartment suite with a lovely Pakistani-Glaswegian girl called Faiza and we got on well despite our theological differences. At breakfast time all of us girls came together, and it was such a positive and supportive experience compared to the BC Syria – no competitiveness or hostility whatsoever, to my relief.

Accommodation

Oman was a different experience for me, compared to all other countries I had been to, because it was pretty much unnavigable by foot. Firstly, it was far too hot to go strolling around for any length of time and secondly, there were no pavements. It was clear that everyone drove (and/or got taxis) and prior to arriving in the country the BC had made it clear that hiring a car for three months would be the wisest option. But having only driven rarely (and only around Reading) I wasn’t about to go bombing around in a rented car in the Arabian Gulf! Luckily for me, Rachel, another summer teacher, had recently left Spain and was in the process of getting her license renewed in the UK so she too was not going to be renting any big white cars in a hurry either. For this reason, Rachel and I were paired up and designated the closest accommodation to the BC (from where we could easily get a taxi to work every day) – a shared penthouse apartment on the tenth floor above ‘RedTag’ clothing store in the Al Khuwair district. It turned out to be the perfect location – not only was there a supermarket around the corner, but there was also a Chinese restaurant on the ground floor and a Lebanese restaurant in the fancy hotel opposite! There was also a quaint little mosque right beside us and by leaning over the edge of the balcony I could spy on all the men coming and going for prayers – and what a beautiful, melodious echoing sound the call of prayer made five times a day. Unusually for me I didn’t mind being woken by it – rather that than by birds! It really is a haunting, unworldly sound and I used to love listening to it on the balcony while gazing out across the distant mountains and sea.

One thing about the accommodation that came as a surprise was that the Swedish landlady lived there too, along with a random English businessman who sometimes creepily sat in a chair outside our bathroom! The landlady turned out to be a mad, rude, unpleasant horror show of a human being who employed a sweet Filipino maid whom she treated contemptuously. Occasionally this lovely maid, called Lena, would randomly make us smoothies in the morning and I remember sipping every refreshing sip with a lump of guilt in my throat – I felt very uncomfortable. We later learned that the landlady had taken the maid’s passport away and stopped her returning home when her mother had died – shockingly awful. She also happened to be the mother of the actress MyAnna Buring who played Tanya in Twilight. On her Wiki page it states: ‘Buring has been noted as being very private about her personal life’, with a mother like that it doesn’t surprise me. Despite all this, living in RedTag was amazing – the location, the sweeping mountain views, watching the planes coming in across the sparkling Arabian Sea, the neighbouring mosque, the comfortable living quarters, having Rach next door etc. but I definitely do not approve of live-in maids.

The day Rachel and I moved into RedTag is one forever burned in my memory. Noll, the nice BC director, escorted us to our apartments and kindly attempted (attempted being the key word here) to manoeuvre Rachel’s enormous suitcase. As he huffed and puffed his way in, Rachel squirming, I thought I heard the sound of clanking bottles – as it turned out, Rachel had stocked up on duty-free bottles of Vodka at the airport! No wonder the case was so heavy! And that incident was the start of many mad, comedic, naughty, knicker-wetting classically brilliant Rach-Bink moments in Muscat!

Teaching

Most of the teaching that took place at the BC was focused on young learners and a morning timetable, but myself and Faiza (stating prior to arrival that we wanted to teach only adults) were part of a very small group of staff who taught the adult classes on an afternoon/evening basis. This couldn’t have been more perfect for me. As Rachel woke up early each morning (I can still recall the comforting sound of her hairspray drifting over from the room next door) I was left to lie in bed until late, leisurely watching films and TV series whilst hiding from the morning heat, then find some lunch and later in the afternoon catch a taxi to work. It was nothing like teaching in the BC Damascus – the offices were deserted, and I sometimes had the whole staffroom to myself. The students themselves were wonderful; mainly Omanis but also a few from Iran, Yemen, Syria, Sudan, Egypt and even Ukraine. The afternoon classes were slightly more ‘studious’ – many of the students had got time off from their jobs to learn English so they were often business types with the expectation that they’d make steady progress, pass the end of course tests and graduate to the next level. But the night classes were a whole different ball game – some lessons were pure raucous chaos and more like a social club! Most students were tired having come to class straight after work and my last class of each day ended at 11pm! I had one group which included three Egyptian guys – possibly the cheekiest boys I’ve ever taught – scraping chairs, speaking in their own language, arriving late, leaving early, silliness, quasi-flirty cheekiness, general mischief-making etc. When it came to class tests it was pandemonium – shameless cheating, not sitting still and not taking anything seriously! That class also included a pair of Omani ‘wild women’ – in their late 30s, divorced and outspoken who came out with classic lines like: ‘teacher, today my son bad. I late because I beat him,’ after which she proceeded to demonstrate how she did actually ‘beat him’, which set off a whole chain of classroom debate surrounding the ethics of child punishment. I was always thoroughly exhausted after that class – but loved it all the same. Having taught for the BC in Syria and Middle Eastern students for years in the UK, I myself didn’t experience any profound culture shock and as I was already quite familiar with Omani religious beliefs, views on animals, women’s roles, relationships, family, culture etc. the teaching was comparatively straightforward and always enjoyable.

The generosity and thoughtfulness of Omani students and people never ceased to amaze me – as thank you gifts I received Prada Candy perfume (they found out it was my favourite), Omani honey (a local delicacy apparently), dates (of course), a beautiful ring (!), a gold necklace of my name and on my birthday one of my classes turned up with pizza, soft drinks, an enormous ‘Happy Birthday Bianca’ chocolate cake, flowers and one of the girls painted my hand with henna (on that occasion I’m glad there was nobody around in the BC to ask me why I was having a party when I should have been teaching)!! Fun times.

Social Life

Because Rachel and I lived together we ended up socialising together, eating out together, planning trips together etc. and we soon became best buddies. After she finished teaching midday, she would often head to the Intercontinental Hotel with the other girls and use the gym and fancy pool. I tried it once, but it was definitely not my thing (aside from the absolutely enormous cinnamon latte I had which was twice the size of my head and utterly delicious!). But come the night (she would sometimes meet me after class at 11pm) and weekends we’d explore the restaurants, malls and bars of Muscat. Sometimes we went out with Tanya (another fab summer-school teacher) and sometimes Neil would drive us around. Neil was an Indian guy living/working in Oman who became a friend of ours after we randomly met him with Tanya at an ‘Inter-nations’ event (an expat organisation existent in most countries around the world). He drove flashy cars (I think he had two big black ones) and worked in the petroleum industry and soon started regularly socialising with us and the other teachers. Muscat is a comparatively small capital city, so for expats and non-Omanis it can be a relatively close-knit community – which for obvious reasons can be good and bad. I remember Neil and Rach picking me up after work and the three of us cruising around the city listening to music and eating ice-cream. It was the first time in years I had gone out at night, danced in bars, stayed up into the early hours and socialised with a group of friends – it felt like I was reliving my university days all over again. It’s important to state that life in Oman gets going at night simply because it is cooler. But when I say ‘cooler’ I do literally mean that in a comparative sense because still, at 11pm leaving the BC, I experienced eyeball burn! The fumes from the cars didn’t help matters either.

And that was the thing about Oman (and Syria once upon a time), in the middle of a fairly strict Islamic society there were pockets of expat fun, partying, general revelry and very un-Islamic carryings on. It also wasn’t a ‘dry’ country like its neighbours, and residents could purchase liquor licenses and buy alcohol in hotels and bars. One ‘moment of revelry’ stands out more than others – one weekend Rach and I ended up in some fancy walled villa-like house in a fairly remote district of the city partaking in a pool party – my first, and probably last! Huge speakers were perched on the edge of the pool, there was a DJ and a few random people were dancing in bikinis! I never in my wildest dreams thought my time in Oman would encompass a pool party! Other weekends consisted of the girls coming over to our apartment for drinks, drives out to interesting restaurants (one place called ‘The Cave’ was particularly notable), regularly eating out at TGI Friday’s, meandering around enormous malls, trips to Starbucks, the occasional party somewhere random and frequenting my all-time favourite coffee shop: Nestle Toll House, which had the most delicious over-priced iced lattes which I lived on and gorgeous doughy cookies (I think that by the end of the summer my raving about the place had started to get on Rach’s nerves!).

Travel Adventures

Despite the thrill and madness of the nights out and socialising, and aside from the satisfying teaching and lovely students, the highlight of my time in Oman was undoubtedly the places I visited and the weekends adventuring beyond Muscat. Oman, beyond its towns and expansive coastline, is primarily barren mountains, vast rolling golden deserts and palm-tree-lined wadis, bespeckled here and there with grand castle-forts and crumbling, old, often abandoned villages. Truly the stuff of romance and fairy tale! But, unfortunately, exploring such dreamscapes in the height of an Arabic summer in 40+ degree humid heat was often ‘challenging’ to say the least i.e. excruciatingly unbearable! But I did as best I could – usually by jumping in and out of air-conditioned vehicles in long, floaty, white cotton dresses, and furiously snapping pics and admiring the dramatic vistas before my camera (and hand) melted. The only good thing about such intensity of heat was that, unlike in other countries, there was no real risk of heatstroke – it was simply impossible to be outside for any extended period of time.

The castle-forts in Oman I visited (Nizwa, Bahla, Jabreen, Al Hazm and Al Rustaq) were always well preserved, beautifully situated, and impressive, although sometimes right beside them or behind them were random piles of rubble with rotting sheep carcass and animal detritus scattered about. On a few occasions there were dodgy, leery men lingering around, attempting to take photos of me or exhibiting lewd gestures (Oman, like most Gulf states, employs many labourers and workers from the Indian subcontinent – largely poorly educated men from villages with no experience of western women). But, no trip to Oman is complete without exploring the castles, and when floating along the battlements, stepping through enormous spiked doors or gazing up at the fantastical edifices, I truly felt like a princess in an ancient Arabian fairy tale!

The abandoned villages scattered across the country I explored (Al Sogara on Jebel Akhdar mountain, Al Hamra, Bahla and Fanjah) were just as stunning as the forts, and since first visiting North Africa I have been obsessed with traditional doors – old, ornate, crumbling ones leading to vacant spaces, rubble and secret places. I also love what you can find among the ruins…rusted keys, bits of old books, children’s shoes and the odd stray flower breaking free from the piles of broken plaster and sunburnt stone – fantasy fodder for the wild imagination. Abandoned mud-brick villages and deserted towns never fail to inspire me, and they were definitely worth the long drives, heat and sun exposure.

My absolute favourite place in Oman, however, was definitely the limestone sinkhole known locally as Hawiyyat Najm which translates as ‘the deep well of the (falling) star’, since legend has it that a meteorite created the turquoise water-filled depression. How romantic! Located a longish drive away from Muscat and only a few meters away from the sea, the water is crystal clear and gorgeously warm. It’s rather unnerving when you first put your feet in, as hundreds of little fish appear and start gently nibbling at your skin – a free pedicure (Rach wasn’t impressed)! But then, you can just float…gazing up at the craggy rock face of the crater and letting life’s cares drift away. It truly is the most calming, beautiful experience and my ‘go to’ place when in the dentist’s chair or waiting for a late bus in the pouring rain in dripping Devon!

No write-up of Oman would be complete without a mention of the deserts, beaches and wadi bashing! Of course, there were some stunning beaches (Yiti Beach was my favourite – which you had to drive over a mountain to reach) but it was too hot to swim until late afternoon when the sun had started its descent. On one occasion Tanya drove Rach and I to the beach to go snorkelling. Aside from Tan’s swearing and cursing on the roads to get us there (always a brilliant experience!) once we arrived Rach and I soon realised that the beach was a boiling pit of scorching hell – the sand burned our feet, the water was not even remotely refreshing as it was simply too hot (!) and the direct sun made us faint and sick after 5 mins – so we ran back to the car and ramped up the air-con while we waited for Tan (obviously far braver and more heat-resilient than us!). Evening and night swimming was always the best option!

The Omani desert (Sharqiya Sands) was dramatic, golden, windy and scorching, but sadly littered here and there with the inevitable bits of plastic and the odd nappy – an unsurprising sight in many ‘wild’ places of the world these days. I remember driving over frighteningly high dunes in a 4×4 with a crazed Omani man from the local village who then invited us back for tea and dates in his little house – nothing feels quite so good as warm cardamom tea after a day of dune bashing and camel spotting in clothes wet and sticky with sand and sweat.

In the whole of that summer, one of the days that stands out for me was when my student-friend Jamal took me to his hometown of Al-Rustaq – known for its hot spring, stunning 13^th Century fort, honey, wadis and oasis-like scenery. He took me wadi bashing in his family’s lovely red jeep – splashing and bumping through the ravine lined with towering mountains and palm trees. It was not a ride for the faint hearted – my bones were literally bashed to pieces. Luckily we ate pizza after, not before!  We also visited the fort and strolled around the little town. In some ways it reminded me of the day I spent in Palmyra, Syria in 2009 – feeling incredibly far away from home and yet so intensely alive, happy and grateful to have lived in such a time and given the opportunity to experience such magical, far-away, breathtakingly beautiful places.

One weekend I was able to fly to Dubai to visit my Iranian aunt and cousins. They live there in a duplex apartment (complete with internal elevator!) in ’23 Marina’ which was, at the time of completion, the tallest residential building in the world – and boy was it a bit unnerving going up and up to reach the 70^th or something floor! Like wadi bashing and the Middle Eastern heat in summer, tall buildings are not for the faint of heart! It turned out to be one amazing weekend – and what a contrast to Oman! Instead of low-rise traditional-style buildings there were futuristic towers piercing the sky, and everywhere the worst of modern material excesses. My family took me out for lunch at The Atlantis Hotel, showed me the sights, cooked me delicious Persian food and even introduced me to the Bastakia Quarter, which has traditional housing and yellow stucco buildings with wind towers (built for the wealthy textile and pearl traders from Bastak, Iran, hence the name). Dubai was thankfully slightly cooler than Oman so it was more pleasant to stroll around – I remember walking arm in arm with my lovely cousin Sanam and enjoying the fresh breeze drifting off the Persian Gulf.

This excursion aside, I of course spent much time exploring Muscat itself: the labyrinthine Mutrah Souk, the 16^th-century Portuguese forts looming over the harbour, Al Alam Palace (home of the Sultan) and the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque – which was definitely grand with its blindingly bright white marble! I loved meandering around such places wearing the traditional Omani dress I had spotted in a shop window – it looked very much like the romantic costumes worn by the ladies of Qarth from ‘Game of Thrones’ and it certainly wasn’t cheap!

Altogether I saw some spectacular places that summer, loved the teaching and met some amazing people, but the highlight was definitely the friendship I developed with Rach and the madness and fun we had – wetting myself with laughter outside a mosque and her experiencing a scary pain in her head from laughing stand out! And there was our bizarre bus tour around the city and the trip we took to the town of Nizwa where we had no food or drink…and the sheer madness in supermarkets! There is an intimacy that develops between people who share a living space together – so it is no surprise that aside from staying close to the three girls I lived with at uni, I have continued a close friendship with Rach long since that unforgettable summer faded into memory. We even went on holiday to Zanzibar together in 2017 (another fantastic experience!) and on the journey back I stopped over in Oman with her for a few days. I was lucky enough to return to my favourite spot, the fallen star sinkhole, and to revisit my favourite café. Oman is definitely a country worth exploring in depth and my summer teaching there in 2015 remains one of the most precious experiences and adventures of my life.

‘So much of who we are is where we have been.’ – William Langewiesche

For a long time I have wanted to write about my experiences living and working in China, for myself as much as for others, so lockdown was the perfect opportunity to sit down, reassemble all my memories…and write. When in China I wrote extensively (in diaries and an online journal) but 17 years later the things I remember most vividly, and which affected me most are not the same as the events I meticulously recorded during my time there. I began teaching in Chongqing, at Sichuan International Studies University (SISU), in September 2003 and left in the summer of 2004. I then taught in Italy for a few months until deciding to return to China for a second year in Sept 2005 – this time I chose somewhere on the other side of the country – Yantai University in Shandong Province. Unsurprisingly, my first year was more significant and had more of an impact – the culture shock, lifestyle adjustment and burgeoning relationships were more intense than in my second year, so I will focus more on my first year. To make it easier to write (and read) I have divided this account into sections.

Decisions, Arrival, First Few Months, Initial Impressions.

Many people ask me why I chose to go to China – it was mainly due to it being one of only a few countries that would employ me with ample qualifications but zero teaching experience, and the opportunity to teach in a university and live on campus appealed too. For years I wanted to live abroad and see as much of the world as possible – escaping Croydon was a big incentive too! I was also much encouraged by the communication I had with a few universities I had contacted – so friendly and welcoming! I chose Chongqing because out of a handful of positive responses SISU was the friendliest. This enormous sprawling super-city (approximately half the size of England!) used to be known as Chungking and appeared on a map in one scene in Indiana Jones! That was all I knew about it until my arrival.

It is strange the things that stay in one’s memory as vividly as though it were yesterday. Whole years seem to vanish into thin air, but throughout my life I have always remembered first encounters with people and places. So it is not surprising that I can still remember the details of my first few weeks in China – the overwhelming emotions of being so far from home and the acute sensory overload of the streets, traffic, voices, heat, pollution and intoxicating sights.

Luckily for me the foreign affairs secretary ‘Mr Ma’ settled me in over the two-week induction period before teaching commenced – providing me with campus restaurant vouchers, escorted trips to the local supermarket, mini guided tours and insightful discussions about Chinese history and culture. I fell in love with the food from my very first bite and it was nothing like the Chinese food we eat in the west – being significantly hotter, saltier, wetter and softer – my favourite kind of taste sensations!

I had my own spacious two-bedroom apartment (with lovely tiled veranda) in a little ‘foreign expert’ housing block nestled behind a tennis court in one corner of the campus. My first few days were spent scrubbing it (attempting to remove the black layers of filth) and trying to banish the presence of my resident cockroaches. The kitchen floor leaked the instant you turned on the tap and, in the bathroom, if I wasn’t stepping over bugs, I was frantically trying to avoid having my feet walked on by large centipedes that came up the plughole in the shower. Fun times. I also, for some time, had a pet bat who would arrive outside my window at the same time every night. That was until I innocently pointed it out to the resident caretaker one morning who promptly decided to spear it and kill it – I remember the shock of seeing its flapping bloodied body on the ground below. Needless to say, there were many instances like this – particularly when there were misunderstandings and a communication breakdown.

I also remember my very first day of teaching. I was gripped with paralyzing fear. It would be my first ever teaching experience beyond my four-week initial teacher training course and it was no easy initiation – waiting for me was a classroom with over 40 students! The lesson was a blur but afterwards they all clapped (naturally I wasn’t expecting that!) and then I had a queue of about 7 girls all inviting me to have lunch or dinner with them and one even invited me to visit her hometown at the weekend. From that moment on I was never alone. For some reason that first class ended up being the class where I made most of my closest friends – Ginny, Isel, Isabella and one boy called Alex. Most Chinese people who have contact with ‘westerners’ use an English name – it makes things a lot easier!

Over the next few months I had a wonderful time – China opened up to me as I opened up to her. Everyday life was in many ways so much easier than back home. Getting around (a constant flow of buses or cheap taxis), food (on every corner and amazingly cheap and delicious), getting things fixed or sorted in the apartment (workmen on hand), entertainment options (shopping, cheap counterfeit DVDs, bars, clubs, campus social events) etc. I felt safe too – and that in itself was a liberating experience. Public life in China carries on well into the night – children potter around, shops, malls and markets are open late. Streets are always well-lit and busy; taxi drivers were always polite and friendly and there was no underlying sexual atmosphere – so unlike the Middle East (and sometimes the UK) where the air was thick with it. Even in nightclubs there was no ‘meat-market’ atmosphere – everybody was fully clothed, acting civilised and keeping themselves to themselves.

Whilst I never embraced or approved of the great overarching philosophical ‘god’ called ‘Chinese culture,’ which shackled every living thing under the hot Chinese sun, I did admire and respect the general way of Chinese people – easy-going, kind, fun, playful, polite and generous. And in many aspects, the society appeared to ‘work’ (that is, as far as a foreigner could see) and the totalitarian state, with all its powers, rules, brutality and restrictions, was largely invisible. So, I loved the freedom (ironic in so many ways), loved living back on a university campus, adored my job and lifestyle and got closer and closer to my student-friends. The only thing that really stretched my patience were the public toilet nightmares and the extent to which all people seemed to follow, blindingly and unquestionably, their god called culture.

Adventures

Undeniably the highlight of my time in China was the travelling, exploring and sightseeing – which I did as often as I could and mostly with my student-friends. In this chapter I have listed the highlights, from both years, and in no particular order.

Horse Trekking in the Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture & ‘Fairyland’

Sounds epic and it was! One of the most famously beautiful places in China is a biosphere reserve and UNESCO national park called Jiu-zhai-gou (‘nine Tibetan settlement valley) located high up in northern Sichuan province (pictured above). I went there one weekend with my friend Alex as my ‘guide.’ All day long we caught one public bus after another – we didn’t plan or book anything – we simply had his ability to speak Chinese and my Lonely Planet guidebook. Most of the minibuses were battered and broken and packed with local workers who stank to high heaven and kept spitting and hacking up (a common phenomenon back then and pre-Sars).We stayed overnight in a gorgeous hilltop city called Songpan and the next day we went horse trekking into the snowy mountains passing through tiny Tibetan villages. We sometimes rode and sometimes walked beside our horses. I remember the stunningly beautiful scenery – snowy forests, near and distant mountains and the wizened but smiley faces of the elderly Tibetan women with elaborately decorated clothes and beautifully braided hair. We also saw some apparently very rare birds – bright yellow in colour; the guide was delighted at this, hence why I can remember as birds don’t usually make an impression on me!

I cannot recall the details of how, but eventually we made it to Jiu-zhai-gou – also known as Fairyland of Sichuan! It was undoubtedly breathtaking – bright iridescent turquoise lakes, virgin forests, frothy waterfalls and bubbling brooks galore – all observed behind low wooden barriers, on well-trodden walkways and for the price of a fairly costly entrance ticket. I was expecting something along the lines of the Lake District, what I got was more like a natural theme park. Apparently, because the area is so protected and so special one cannot just go wandering off – as with a lot of China, freedom (in all its guises) is severely restricted. Oddly though, or perhaps not, most Chinese tourists (many in high-heel shoes) treated the whole thing as though it were a photographic backdrop – they were far more interested in themselves, and each other, than the dazzling fairyland vistas before them. This was another facet of Chinese culture that grew increasingly tiresome. As for the journey home – I cheated. In hindsight it was horribly unfair but there was no way I could have bussed it all the way back to Chongqing – not unless I was prepared to abscond from a few days of teaching. So, after a few phone calls made by Alex I managed to book a flight from the nearest airport and was back in my apartment before Alex had even caught his first bus back. Travelling with students worked wonderfully – I was able to navigate the country with a native speaker and they got intensive practice with English and got to travel and see parts of their country that they may not have seen otherwise. It also gave them a taste of independent travel – something uncommon in China.

Beijing: The Forbidden City, The Great Wall, & Tiananmen Square

The Forbidden City was just as romantic, impressive and ornately beautiful as I imagined. During my second year in China, at Yantai University, I became close friends with a student called Violet and during a half-term holiday we decided to travel to Beijing together. It was uncomfortably hot, and the air was filled with masses of fluffy snow-white floating catkins shed by the Cottonwood Poplars that surround Beijing. We explored The Forbidden City and Summer Palace – taking photos, befriending strangers, and reading about the history and strange events that took place eons ago. I loved Beijing, with its wide roads, thronging streets and merging of old and new. Old China is exceptionally aesthetically pleasing – conjuring up images of arched bridges crowning lily-filled ponds, temple gateways like windows to bygone times, narrow cobbled streets lined with red paper lanterns, and quaint markets selling silk and silver and bowls of spicy noodles cooked by smiling old ladies with blackened teeth.

The legendary Great Wall of China didn’t fail to impress either – we avoided the more popular and reconstructed part of the wall (at Badaling) and travelled  further out of the city (by bus) to Simatai – here the wall is more authentic and crumbling and less trammeled by a daily footfall of thousands. Once the steps had been climbed (which was no easy feat), the views were magnificent, vast and vertigo-inducing. I remember a ferocious thunderstorm brewing just as we departed – which only added to the sublime experience.

Visiting Tiananmen (the Gate of Heavenly Peace) and Tiananmen Square, was an experience like no other, particularly considering the terrible events that occurred there in 1989 (which still, to this day, few Chinese people know anything about). From the moment we entered the enormous ‘arena’ it felt like we were entering formidable and extremely hostile territory. Stern looking armed guards were positioned in lines only meters apart and there was an atmosphere of claustrophobic surveillance and uncompromising seriousness. To gain access to the imposing gate – the most recognizable symbol of China – we were told to leave our bags and phones and keep moving. But once standing on the upper floors of the gate and viewing the panoramic view of the largest city square in the world we knew this was no ordinary place and not your everyday sightseeing experience. Upon leaving, for a few extra Yuan, we purchased commemorative certificates with the date and time of our visit formally stamped – a rather charming souvenir considering the officialism of the experience. Like so much in China, ‘cuteness’ is ever-present. I believe Violet met some students who invited us to a nightclub that evening. I also think Violet and I had a few quarrels that week – but such things must be expected when two people from entirely different cultures embark on an adventure together. Nevertheless, the trip was a success and we remained close friends.

Shanghai, The Venice of the East & Hangzhou

Ginny and Isel were undoubtedly my closest friends in China. Ginny was very much still a student, whereas Isel was much more mature and more on my wavelength when it came to certain things. Upon my return to China in 2005, Isel had moved to Shanghai for work so one week outside of term-time she invited me to stay with her. Shanghai was a real ‘shock’, in the sense that it wasn’t a familiar ‘China’ that I had got used to. Unlike Chongqing – a sprawling mountain city choking with the fumes of a thousand motorbikes, in Shanghai, devoid of any hills, the principle mode of transport was the bicycle. We stayed in the tiny apartment she rented with her mum (who moved in with a friend for the duration of my stay) and we shared the large double bed. I recall that we used Shanghai as a kind of base from which to visit and explore other parts of China that I longed to see.

The first place we travelled to by train was Suzhou, a 2,500-year-old-city, also referred to as the ‘Venice of the East’ because of its narrow canals, gondolas, stone bridges and pagodas. Any reference to Venice beguiles me, as most people who know me also know my lifelong passion for the Italian Serenissima, and I was not disappointed. Suzhou was beautiful, quaint, romantic and other worldly. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t great, so I ended up strolling around in a long, wet dress. Suzhou was also famous for its 60 (!) meticulously designed classical gardens – collectively forming a UNESCO heritage site. We visited ‘The Humble Administrator’s Garden’ and one other if I recall correctly. They were both stunning and filled with all sorts of abundant flora, but what made the greatest impression on me were the enormous ponds filled with lotus plants – just an enormous sea of green as no pink lotus flowers were in bloom.

A few days later Isel and I travelled to Hangzhou, again by train. This time I was disappointed. The main draw of this prosperous city is West Lake – another UNESCO site. But it literally was just a nondescript large lake with no discerning features.

While in Shanghai we also visited the famous Jade Buddha Temple, ate Korean food, stayed up late watching films, strolled around and went to Bar Rouge – which has since become one of the fanciest bar/clubs in the city. It is located on The Bund – an iconic mile-long stretch of waterfront promenade along the Huangpu River. On the terrace it was only possible to stand, as sitting down required the purchase of extravagantly priced drinks. So, we stood, chatted and gazed at the sparkling famous night scene across the curving river.

Yunnan Province with Mum and Ginny

Towards the end of my first year in China my mum came to stay with me for two weeks. She had always wanted to visit China and it was wonderful to see her again after so many months apart. Ginny and I organised a week’s trip to Yunnan Province – home to the ‘Old Town of Lijiang’, Dali and Kunming (the province’s capital).On the day we set off for the airport Ginny turned up with a random guy from her village – from what we could gather, at the last minute, Ginny’s parents had decided to provide a ‘male escort’ unbeknownst to us. There was a terrible kafuffle as the boy spoke no English and was clearly reluctant to join us and we all argued about it with Ginny’s parents via Ginny who was herself the angriest and confused of all! Unfortunately, the parents had their way which also meant that every hotel booking we had made became problematic once we tried to fit him in. The trip didn’t begin well for that reason and for another – on our outward flight the airplane got into trouble during takeoff and I literally thought I was going to die. Poor Ginny – it was her first ever experience on a plane! I was screaming, she was ghostly white, and my poor mum was desperately trying to comfort us both. Five years later I would have another bad flying experience in Libya when one of the aircraft’s engines caught fire. At least I lived to tell the tale!

Some of the places we saw on our trip were spectacular. The famous Stone Forest near Kunming was a vast eerie labyrinth of ancient limestone formations that once were under the sea. Here and there were beautiful smiley girls colourfully attired in Sani Ethnic minority costume – obviously for the tourists but they added to the otherworldly atmosphere. Yunnan Province is home to many ethnic minorities – each with their own unique customs, clothing and history. At one place we visited I rode across a river on a huge hairy, fluffy yak which was wonderful, at another we all formed a large circle with the costumed girls and danced around a campfire singing folk songs – this is called ‘circle dancing,’ which I later learned and was performed mainly by the folk people of Tibet. Mum especially loved that! I believe we caught a night-train to Dali – that was a nightmarish experience – sleeping in a crusty bunk opposite smelly, snoring Chinese men with filthy loos and heavy-footed armed guards prowling the corridors all night – never again! But when we arrived at our destination, we discovered the stunning alpine fault lake called Erhai or ‘ear-shaped sea’ and the old town of Dali itself was a beautiful little place to explore.

But by far the crowning glory of our trip was Lijiang – a breathtakingly beautiful 1,000-year-old UNESCO town with cobbled streets, canals, bridges and ancient little houses. It is also home to the Naxi ethnic people (matrilineal and non-monogamous) who inhabit Yunnan and the foothills of the Himalayas. I remember sitting in a quaint café beneath hanging red paper lanterns watching the bright orange fish in the canal and then strolling around the lovely little shops – mum bought a gorgeous (but fairly pricey) ‘Dongba aspirational wind-bell’ handcrafted by the Naxi people. It still hangs in her kitchen to this day. Lijiang was one of those exotically beautiful places that leave a deep impression in the mind. Its location felt very remote, wild and mountainous and unlike most of China the air was clear and crisp. Ginny remarked that evening, as we lit floating paper lotus lanterns and set them free on one of the canals, that she had never seen the stars before. The sky in Chongqing was always hazy and vaguely beige in hue, the rivers the shade of butterscotch, but here the skies were brilliant-blue by day and sparkling with a thousand stars by night.

Mum enjoyed the remainder of her stay with me – exploring interesting places I had discovered around my uni and visiting a remote temple with Isel and her mum. She didn’t, however, enjoy my dining preferences of slimy dumplings and chili noodles! Eeek!

In and Around Chongqing

Despite the extensive travelling I crammed in during my first teaching year, I also explored a lot of Chongqing itself. A longish walk from the uni was a charming ramshackle and ornately decorated ancient area called Ciqikou – filled with red hanging lanterns, traditional tea shops, craft stalls, food stalls and art shops. Reaching its zenith during the end of the Qing Dynasty, the town has been described poetically as the place where ‘one thousand people greet each other during the day…ten thousand lamps flicker at night’. A 1,500-year-old Buddhist temple straddles the mountain in the middle of the town too. It had an authentic, yet romantic atmosphere and I went there often – mum also loved it.

A bus ride away was the district of Beibei – home to Jinyun Mountain upon which stood two temples. Each time I went there the mountain was coated in thick, dripping fog – there was an eerie stillness to the place, and I remember a large lake which was exactly the same shade of watery grey as the sky. I also went on a boat trip with a fellow teacher and some students – to visit Fengdu Ghost City. What a place! It was an enormous sprawling complex of temples, museums, pagodas, lakes and forest with numerous exhibits of twisted ghouls from Chinese folklore, statues and dummies being horrifically tortured and all manner of brutal, ghoulish and macabre sights. I also visited other districts, the nearby city of Chengdu where I visited the panda breeding base, old villages, caves and mountains, and attended concerts and student-led performances. I was also a judge for various student talent contests and competitions. The CBD of Chongqing, Jiefangbei, was also a sight to see – a mega metropolis of gargantuan proportions teeming with people night and day. I sometimes went there for a shopping trip or to enjoy one of the many western restaurants.

In and around Yantai

As Yantai university in Shandong (my second posting a year later) was literally situated on the beach, I spent a lot of time there or just drifting around the town and hanging out locally with student-friends. I used to love visiting a large dumpling restaurant where a grubby old man would stroll around with a bucket offering a sloppy dip of raw garlic – delicious! Unlike Chongqing, which got incredibly hot, Yantai was much further north (parallel to the border of north and south Korea) so it was freezing in winter. One day I woke up to find myself in a winter wonderland! Thick snow everywhere, even on the beach, and the campus lake had frozen over. I remember travelling further along the coast to a lighthouse – I climbed up to behold a dazzling view across the sea. I also visited an aquarium which had a polar area, shark hall, tropical rainforest, and a theatre with mermaids, dolphins and sea lions (which I kissed!). The mermaids were beautiful!

Even further along the coast was Penglai – a premium tourist spot in China for over a thousand years. Its Water Fortress, a fortified harbour, is one of China’s oldest military ports and Penglai Pavilion, a Song Dynasty complex, is ranked among the Four Great Towers of China in literary tradition. There was even a beautiful sculpture park. Of course, similar to my first year, I visited my students’ homes, some of them quite a distance away. I went to one really old village where some of the older residents had never seen a foreigner before (so they were super smiley and eager to shake my hand) and a few older women even had bound feet. I cried when my student told me their stories.

In general, though, Shandong province wasn’t as interesting as Chongqing and slowly the novelty of living and working in China was starting to wear off. I also had a few unpleasant incidents with some of the other foreign teachers and I was wary of the American contingent on campus who were being sponsored by the Catholic Church to convert the young, naïve students. Baptisms on the beach were a frequent occurrence – much to my horror. But I made some lifelong friends too – Sharity, Violet, Merry, Ashley, a fun guy named Jimmy, my neighbour Rainer (a German lecturer) and a Korean guy called Philip. But now, when I reflect upon my time in China, it is usually the first year in Chongqing that springs to mind – with the grimy but picturesque dilapidated buildings, red lanterns, cobbled old lanes, dirty skies, friendly faces and spicy bowls of noodles on every corner.

Adventures of the Heart

Undoubtedly, the legacy of my time in China are the enduring friendships I made. I am still in contact with Isel and Isabella – but last year Ginny inexplicably stopped responding to my emails. I am trying to find out what happened but so far, I have had no luck. I also fell in love in China. How do you know when it’s love? Because of the pain. As part of my SISU university teaching contract I taught in a high school once a week. I would get driven to the school and back in a fancy black car with a driver wearing gloves – I felt like a VIP! Upon arrival a very sweet ‘starstruck’ little boy called Dennis would excitedly greet me and carry my bag and books to the classroom while behind us a trail of teenage girls would be merrily pointing and giggling. Chongqing was a city with very few foreign tourists and teachers so perhaps, in some ways, I was a VIP (of sorts). I eventually made friends with a science teacher at the school – a lovely guy called Jack. His English was superb and at weekends we would often meet for coffee or visit somewhere together.

One morning in the middle of an ordinary weekday, upon arrival at the school Jack met me from the car (along with Dennis) and as we entered the building a tall, long-haired dashingly handsome man passed us and said ‘hello’. Within that first glance I felt the stirrings of a deep and powerful romantic attraction. I instantly enquired as to who he was and every week from then on, I would eagerly anticipate seeing him in the staffroom. His name was Xiaolin and he was a PE teacher and part-time actor and model – swoon. Jack eventually introduced us and one day Xiaolin asked me out.

On our first date we went to the beautiful Eling Park located in central Chongqing. I wore my newly acquired white ‘qipao’ dress (a traditional Chinese figure-hugging silk dress with high collar) given to me as a gift from a student. But right from the outset the language barrier was a problem – Xiaolin spoke only basic English. We walked around the park tentatively holding hands doing our best to communicate and discuss, in a rudimentary way, the usual subjects that new lovers explore – family, childhood, worldviews, past encounters, dreams of the future etc… He was an extremely shy and gentle soul with an underlying quiet melancholy. He had a beautiful face and body with the most luscious jet-black hair. It was me who made the first move – we sat in an ornate pavilion beside an eerily still water-lily pond beneath a heavy, perpetually grey sky…and kissed.

It was easy to fall in love with Xiaolin and over the next few months we grew closer and closer. I met his lovely family, he would secretly stay over at my apartment (he’d sneak past the sweet, elderly ‘guard’ who spent all day marching and doing funny exercises outside the gate of the foreign expert block) and we travelled to some lovely places together. Of course, there were myriad problems too – mainly caused by the increasingly difficult and frustrating language barrier and the encroaching cultural differences. Unlike some of my student-friends and Jack who were open-minded and fully aware of the limitations imposed upon them by the Chinese state and Chinese culture, Xiaolin was more traditional. I once asked him a question and I distinctly remember his response: ‘in China you don’t ask why.’ A chilling likeness to that harrowing infamous answer to the question of how the holocaust could have happened: ‘Hier ist kein warum’.

Despite our differences, being with Xiaolin was the only time in my life when I seriously envisioned having a child – I had always loved Chinese babies and could see myself with a half-Chinese little girl. I was only 25 at the time so by now my theoretical child would be 16 years old. But I feel relieved that I didn’t go down that route – I could never have permanently lived in China so it would have been unfair to all involved. I remember my last day in Chongqing in the summer of 2004, a day that still pulls at my heart. My contract had ended, my suitcases were packed, and I was ready to be taken to the airport. Xiaolin had stayed the night before and had decorated my bed with rose petals – there were even petals floating atop the mosquito net. I was wearing a long floaty green dress and the Swarovski crystal lock-and-key necklace Xiaolin had bought me (something I still treasure). My friends came over that morning too, to say their goodbyes, and we all sat together in the empty campus restaurant next to my apartment waiting for the car to arrive. Despite Xiaolin, my beloved friends and the job and country I had grown to love – it felt the right time to leave. I missed my friends and family in England and had dreams of teaching in other countries. Of course, I ended up returning to china a year later…but by then I had lost touch with Xiaolin and knew he would have to find a girl to marry and settle down with – someone less freethinking, less questioning…and less foreign than me.

My two years in China were magical and I feel so privileged to have met such wonderful people and visited such spectacular places. The memories will stay with me my whole life.

 

Against the Normalisation of Nationalism & the Personal Appropriation of Cities, Cultures & Countries

 A Personal Response to Orhan Pamuk’s Autobiographical Memoir

‘Istanbul: Memories and the City’

 

“Nationalism is an infantile thing. It is the measles of mankind.”

– Albert Einstein

 

For people who love reading, good writing is tantamount to magic. In my mind, in the modern age the closest thing we get to a magician is a good writer, for words have the power to produce magic. The act of mental transportation, suddenly being somewhere else through scanning one’s eyes across a page (a different time, country, planet, body, self) is nothing short of wizardry and witchcraft. If ever we could apply those notions to existence, it is in the domain of literature – within the very act of reading and writing.

The Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk is the closest thing to a magician I have encountered in my recent literary travels. Upon reading one paragraph I was instantly sucked into a portal – partly composed of my own mind and memories, partly composed of his. Out of the emergence of this ebb and flow of words, written by him and experienced by me, a new experience is born. A symbiosis of thought, a concatenation of recollection – and with that power comes new thinking, new perceptions, re-imagined narratives, re-considered lives. I love how that happens and recognise the rarity of such writing. I have experienced that in poetry, but less often in non-fiction and even less in fiction.

My partner handed me Pamuk’s book ‘Istanbul: Memories and the City’ as I was boarding a train. My one brief experience of Turkey and Istanbul was not great; but my partner’s experiences have been very different from mine – overwhelmingly positive, at least before the advent of recent political upheavals. So it was with slight hesitancy and scepticism that I took the book, but after reading the first paragraph all my doubts subsided and five chapters in, I was captivated. It was a revelation to discover that Pamuk’s Istanbul was similar to my one isolated encounter. My anticipated defences were never erected, instead I felt myself soften to the city he so tenderly yet truthfully depicts.

Alongside Pamuk’s biographical meanderings through his childhood, through the cobbled melancholic streets of old Istanbul, I also explored my own roots and reflected, simultaneously with his, upon the nature of personal identity and what it means to feel attached, or not, to one’s country of birth. As a teacher of English to adults from across the world, it has always been apparent to me that very often a person’s sense of self is intricately rooted in their ‘home’ country. In some regions of the world the extent of this I have found both startling and often unsettling. Upon entering conversation with one Omani girl, for example, I casually said how much I loved Muscat to which I received a bashful giggle and coy ‘thank you!’, as though she was personally responsible for the creation of such a city! By an act of chance she just happened to be born in that country and that city, so what makes her feel so bound to it, so personally attached? Would she feel the same way if she had been born in Stockholm or Chicago, Santiago or Sheffield? Is it a valid response – tenable and virtuous or a less thought out existential position to hold? I have never felt a sense of pride or attachment to the locale of my birth – is this a fault on my part, my parents, my home town, or conversely, a perfectly authentic response to my past? It is these questions that struck me as I was reading Memories and the City.

Pamuk refers to ‘his’ city time and time again. This grand collocation, a personal pronoun linguistically attached to an entire city feels so strange, so alien, to me. What gives him, anyone, the right (or desire) to possess a whole city? Isn’t this habit of homeland appropriation so imbued with everything problematic about the world we live in? Isn’t nationalism one of the greatest evils society and civilisation ever created? Personally I have always felt separate from the country and town I grew up in – I certainly do not feel that one nondescript Surrey location has in any way shaped, defined or belongs to me, quite the contrary. Would I feel differently if I had been brought up in Venice, Paris or in a crumbling city apartment with views overlooking the Bosphorus? I wonder if particular places on earth inspire greater love, create stronger attachment. I suspect that my lack of attachment could be due to the fact that I am Anglo-Persian – a child of two countries and, consequently, critical and appreciative of both. But it may also be due to my interest in identity per se, and how my psycho-philosophical excavations have unearthed the illusory and shaky foundations of the arbitrary, fabricated concept of self.

I was conceived in Iran but born in the UK just after the Islamic Revolution in 1978. In the womb I subconsciously listened to the sounds of Persia, through my mother I received nourishment grown and picked from the soil of the Middle East, but I took my first breath in English air. My mother caught one of the last planes out of Tehran. I grew up in Purley, Surrey, had an idyllic, innocent and care-free childhood. My memories predominantly consist of time spent playing with my best friend, playing and fighting with my younger brother, being with my doting parents and often visiting extended family. I was largely oblivious to the wider world, cocooned in my own safe, happy existence. I paid no attention to the weather, the people, the buildings, the culture or the passing of the seasons. It was all background, just existent in a pleasant and insignificant way. I cannot recall poetic or profound experiences, watched no meandering river flowing past my window, had no sense of history, no real sense of self – and what a wonderful sheltered simplicity it was.

When I read Pamuk, and journey through his childhood alongside him, sharing in his discoveries and personal revelations, I cannot help but feel acute sadness. The melancholy of Istanbul seeped into his soul, permeated his pores, and saturated his existence – he was not free, in a childhood bubble, sheltered from the adult world with all its myriad adult problems. Later he would become a literary magician, but at such a cost. His adult life would be one of rich reflection and creativity, but how he suffered. I have come to realise more and more, as I move through life, just how significant our childhood is in shaping us and the way we perceive the outside world and our place in it. Deep and stable adult life contentment might only be possible once we understand and come to terms with the profound significance of our formative years.

As I read Pamuk I pondered the question: should we be so bound to the randomness of where our parents chose to live and raise us? I like to think, possibly idealistically, that we can overcome certain givens, overcome certain circumstances thrown our way at birth, that we can take control of our own choices, lives, destinies – not be at the mercy of what we had no hand in creating. I suppose, in this respect, I consider myself to be an existentialist. I believe a sentimental attachment to one place undermines and contradicts the unity that could exist between people of different countries and cultures. Love of the sheer randomness of where we lived as children is divisive. It creates unnecessary boundaries, creates imaginary separation, fosters difference, and promotes discord. It can also create a defence mechanism within us so strong that an entire town, city, country, creed, culture, even continent becomes as intimately associated with our identity as our immediate family. Couldn’t we, in all honest simplicity, attribute the flowering of wars and the poison of nationalism – to this ‘love’ of where we grew up? Perhaps loving one’s hometown is not such a benign human habit as it is often thought. My time spent living in China and the Middle East revealed how far this ‘loving one’s country’ can go – I observed first-hand the catastrophic existential limitations of lives lived in chains forged by the iron-grip of forced communal thinking and unquestioning faith in religion, culture and where one is born.

Pamuk writes: “I’ve never wholly belonged to this city, and maybe that’s been the problem all along.” I would say that the very notion that he feels it necessary to ‘belong’ to a city is the underlying problem. Pamuk continues: “Why should we expect a city to cure us of our spiritual pains? Perhaps because we cannot help loving our city like a family. But we still have to decide which part of the city we love and invent the reasons why.” Unlike the regard and attachment we have for our parents, who nurture us, care for us, shape us, affect us positively (or not), I would argue that it is erroneous and untenable to regard the arbitrariness of our childhood locale in a similar fashion. It leads to a kind of deterministic resignation, defines us before we can approach self-governance, keeps us indelibly bound to a particular culture, creed, communal thought pattern or regional mores – all at a profound cost to the development of self, and humanity.

Of course, sociologically speaking, nationalism, patriotism (including the social constraint mechanism of sport) and the maintenance of cultural traditions keep people from questioning the state and the people, forces, dictatorships, monarchies and powers that control them. Philosophically, psychologically, existentially, the problem is even more problematic. Reading the beautiful torment of Pamuk’s melancholic soul provides us with tremendous insight into the profound personal battles one can have when we link our sense of self to a particular country or city. I have never rooted myself to a particular place on an arbitrarily created map and feel so much more at home in the world and in myself than many others, Pamuk included. I feel that I am shaped by experiences of my own choosing, a person at the helm of my own life, a person ultimately unchained from the oppression of nationalism, religion, culture or attachment to geography.

I would argue that, ultimately, the personal appropriation of cities, countries and cultures only leads to a self-identity rooted in inauthenticity, self-limitation, and the divisive horrors of patriotism, nationalism (and religion). Travel, appreciation of the natural world, conversation, reading, creative pursuits…are good antidotes to this, as is philosophy – perhaps one of only a few endeavours that causes the unravelling, and potential re-stitching, of the very fabric of existence and that strange, slippery, oft-chaotic concept known as ‘self.’

 

“National boundaries are not evident when we view the Earth from space. Fanatical ethnic, religious or national chauvinisms are a little difficult to maintain when we see our planet as a fragile blue crescent fading to become an inconspicuous point of light against the bastion and citadel of the stars.”

– Carl Sagan

Having recently moved to Totnes in South Devon, after eight lovely years of exploring Berkshire and the environs of Reading, I soon realised that it is impossible to stroll down Totnes high street without being magnetically drawn to almost every single shop window. Unlike most high streets in the UK, Totnes is unspoilt by chain stores and chain coffee shops and offers an impressive breadth of consumer experience against a backdrop of old-world charm. What is also noticeable is the art – predominantly local artists are given window space in all manner of venues, from high-end clothes boutiques and dinky art shops to old-school barber’s shops and even the local butcher’s. And this is how I discovered the work of Lucie Smailes. A casual glance into a shop window and it was love at first sight! Staring out at me through the glass was a doll lamp constructed of doll limbs attached with chains to a torso made of a black tin box. She had pretty plastic flowers in her hair, a perfect Barbie face and deliciously deformed arms and feet. It was a vision of cuteness entangled with the grotesque, an object of beauty dusted with horror. It was everything within the world of art that appeals to me aesthetically and academically. Casually glancing into the neighbouring shop window my heart skipped another beat – gazing upward my eyes fell upon a glittering chandelier made with hanging hand mirrors! I have always loved the image of a hand mirror. For me it is evocative of fairy tales, mermaids and miniature doll paraphernalia – a motif of the feminine, a symbol of narcissism and the allure of beauty. Then, glancing downward, I saw another hand mirror with a pair of chubby doll’s arms reaching outward from the glass – adorable.

I was so enamoured with the art and so surprised to find an artist who appears to share my passion for freakish, surreal doll art that I wrote down the artist’s contact details and set about researching her more. I was not disappointed. Her website was packed full of all manner of twisted taxidermy creations, assemblage art, doll art and pieces alluding to the weird, wonderful and perverse. What also excited me were the titles of her pieces – some sexually explicit, shockingly rude and tantalisingly controversial. Viewing her art alongside these daring titles created a unique kind of magic in my mind and I began to write poetry inspired by the descriptions of the artwork alongside the art itself. And once I started my pen didn’t stop. The poetry wrote itself, as though some invisible mind was concocting story and verse at just a cursory glance at a stuffed fox, doll-head arcade machine, box of plastic limbs or sexually explicit title.

A number of weeks later and I had an entire book’s worth of Lucie inspired poetry. It was a fantastic creative ride – all manner of thoughts and insights flooded my imagination…from the myth of Jesus to romantic encounters from my past, from feminist anguish to defence of the exquisite experience of femininity, from love and desire to the accompanying sorrows of loss and loneliness. And throughout it all lurks the enduring theme of childhood. I have always been aware of the psychoanalytic component of my writing – for we are all walking echoes of our infancy, doomed as adults to perpetually chase after or run from the shadows of our formative years. And that is what attracts me to Lucie’s art – the symbiotic interplay between the motifs of childhood and raw, adult sexuality – a Freudian fusion of fantasy, family and fear wrapped in fur or pouting cherry lips.

I love the wild freedom of writing – how the unrestricted manipulation of language can construct meaning from the mire of lived experience. And I love the added component of incorporating art and image. Ekphrastic poetry (a description of a work of art) can add a deeper dimension to the power of the written word – can create new interpretations of an image, and thus construct new and multiple meanings. For me Lucie’s artwork provides a rich smorgasbord of inspiration and I revelled in the process of closely examining her work whilst weaving poetic narratives on myriad themes. Sometimes the ‘story’ was predominantly title led, other times it was one object or one image that sparked an idea. But always the end aim was the same: to craft a poem that represented something meaningful or thought provoking achieved through an interplay of my own personal philosophies, battles and experiences together with the images in Lucie’s work.

Upon writing a complete set of poems I then decided to create a prototype for a book, which I then sent to Lucie, in the hopes that she would approve and possibly agree to working with me on future collaborative projects. To my delight she loved the concept of the book and following on from a quick introductory chat over coffee one sunny morning in Totnes, we have become good friends. The book is currently in the works and due out sometime in December. We are also in the preliminary stages of planning a pop-up exhibition in Totnes which will be a wonderful experience – hopefully my poetry adding an extra dimension to Lucie’s fantastical work. Thus far my new life in Devon has been fun in so many ways and surprisingly fruitful poetically.

For more information on the work of Lucie Smailes please visit her website: https://luciesmailes.wordpress.com/

For a sample of some of my Ekphrastic poetry please visit here.

​

 

A short science fiction story.

 

 

Written Language Recognition Code Inserted Here: {                            } /Archaic English/

This is the final archival summary report logged from the last space centre still functioning on Earth

The last generation of us: EBHSU (earth-born Homo sapiens unmodified) are soon to depart Earth – to experience Star Sight for ourselves

We are destined for: MACS0647-JD

Feasibility of reaching destination: unknown

Arrival date: unknown

8,196,320 returners remain asleep: location: 50 miles beneath this location

A few radical EBHSU’s remain – inhabiting forest, jungle and desert

Earth date: unknown

Summary Report:

The first test reports came back inconclusive. Lab experiments on such a limited scale could never anticipate or even hypothetically assess the psychological, biological, even existential effects of long term hibernation. So the first expeditions within our solar system were the first catalogued experiences. 5 years in pod sleep was sufficient to know that the human body did not take well to it. Bone density and muscle mass were severely depleted and it took months of intense physical training to return to a sense of normality, to a state of pre-hibernation health. But nobody expected the dreams. What happens to the brain when it is suspended? Do the multi-trillion neurological networks just remain in stasis? Is memory simply frozen? Where does the mind…go? Scientists couldn’t predict what would happen. It was a risk. A risk the first voyagers had to take. A risk we had to take collectively.

The first voyagers returning on the 10 year space missions all reported strange dreaming experiences, even those who had previously never recalled their dreams. Vivid recollections of childhood and adult memories fused with events that occurred throughout their lifetime and before. Nothing too strange until in their recovery period they reported dreaming of the pod dreams, as though some part of their unconscious minds were processing the 10 years of brain activity as the body froze in induced artificial sleep. Some maintained that it was a consequence of the drugs that kept the human body alive, barely. Others speculated it was a consequence of the suspension liquid. It was hard to fully comprehend it all. The technology had suddenly made it all possible, one equation by one rogue biologist and the rest just followed. There just hadn’t been time to test it. And, of course, time itself was the thing needing to be tested.

The 50 year missions reported the same, but those voyagers seemed more unsettled, more disturbed by their hibernation recollections. Some also reported sensory changes. Smell and taste sensations had been dulled, and in other ways heightened. The scientists did their tests, made their calculations, but were unable to account for the phenomenon. At this point the experiences of hibernation were just minor side effects, a small price to pay for one of the most significant breakthroughs in all human endeavour. But once the missions began going further afield the side effects became more startling. Upon waking the voyagers reported acutely vivid ‘visions’. Some described the experience as floating, some felt they transcended the physical enclosure of the pod, others felt that they had travelled deeper inside themselves. Perhaps the brain tuned in on itself, created new neural networks, explored deeper enclaves of memory, thought and human cognisance. The science offered only speculation. The science only revealed our still limited knowledge of the human self…of where the ‘I’ lurks, of the separating lines between thought and matter, being and physical embodiment. Besides, despite all the questions, speculations and philosophy – physical survival was the only aspect of suspended life that truly interested anyone, was the only thing, ultimately, that mattered. That was until the 100 year missions were successful – then everybody started paying attention. Brief notes made on the voyagers’ post hibernation experiences and their ‘revival adjustment’ became long transcripts, and the long transcripts turned into entire books…page after page of vision, testimony, lived experience, recollection upon recollection sometimes bordering on the supernatural, sometimes incoherently surreal, sometimes undecipherable as though what had been encountered could not be put into words, perhaps some things, new things, were simply beyond the parameters of known language, beyond the tongued walls of known articulation. Some of the returners, unable to verbally articulate their dreams, chose to paint, creating spectacular visual forms. Some assembled enormous representations of unrecognisable regions of the universe. Imaginative dream-fabrications perhaps, perhaps not. Other images were impossible to understand – swathes of colour, twisted nebulae, swirling constellations, undocumented stellar forms, strange symbols and undecipherable mathematical equations.

And then everything was made public. Wild hypotheses were constructed. Some of the old religious zealots came out of the brickwork, resurrected the buried myths, dusted off the discarded texts that once blindly led man through millennia – led him through the misery of countless wars and eventually forced him to battle through his barbarism and come out the other side. Wiser, freer, knowingly alone and still as lost. Then, as before, religion lost its way, was outgrown…and the gods once again were laid to rest.

Once the 300 year missions were successful, people on the ground became more curious. New generations set to work attempting to decipher the dreaming experiences reported by the voyagers. New sciences sprung up, new theories invented. Patterns were emerging which were painstakingly decrypted by the new generation of computers. The old dreams of AI were cast aside, once these new machines had captured the collective imagination. New ways of thinking and living developed – civilisation continually evolving with the passing seasons. By the time the 500 year missions returned the focus of humanity changed. The old interests died a natural death, a small number continued their passions – their creativity and intellect still focused on the earth, still rooted to the old ways, but mostly the eyes of man were turned upward…wondering how far we could go…how long the human body could survive – drifting, suspended, unconscious. As the climate changed, worsened, the majority of survivors left – taking the hopes of man to new worlds.

Centuries came and went. Fewer people born, more leaving, the earth gradually repairing itself. The great cities of the world crumbled to towns, then deteriorated further to villages populated by clans who mainly lived surrounding the space centres – carefully constructed structures designed to send out new pods and receive returners over the ages. Eventually the ruination of cities crumbled away leaving little sign of the grand buildings, towers and dwelling houses that once littered the land. For those left, existence on earth was the best it had ever been. War, illness, politics, the divisive scourge of countries, race and nationalism, divergent and conflicting human endeavours, currencies, and the fight over resources – all became remote history. The richness of the natural world returned to a bountiful state prior to the crises of the 22nd century. The fauna of the planet largely went unobserved and undisturbed – left to run its own evolutionary course. And everything human became driven by one desire – to reach ever further into the universe, and in so doing learn more about the workings of the human brain in deep pod hibernation.

The very concept of time radically altered too – it had to. And with the shifting of time came a major shift in the very concept of being human. Individuality lost its meaning, the personal and temporal lost its allure, communities changed, the concept of family vanished, the limits of one lifetime expanded to encompass multiple centuries and beyond. The panic of death was overcome with the overcoming of isolated oneness. This was a by-product of the returners’ dream experiences. Consciousness itself continuously redefined itself – perpetually expanded with the insights accumulated from ‘Star Sight’, because ultimately that was what it was: seeing the stars. Some, however, argued it was not space and stars the voyagers saw but the vast internal geography of the human mind. Some philosophers argued they were one and the same – that the ancient Cartesian divisions existed on a grander scale – a scale encompassing the very possibility of infinity, of multiple universes.

After the 10,000 year missions returned humanity’s project shifted again. The desire man once had – to exist in multiple solar systems, to inhabit multiple planets had been achieved, and later down the line, lost its appeal. The project of being then became directed singularly toward Star Sight – to travel vast interstellar distances purely to experience longer and deeper expanding (un)consciousness, with no other agenda. For countless centuries the visions and experiences of those who returned were deciphered, analysed, picked apart any way possible – and then reassembled with the perpetual reworking of the craft once known as science. Until it all came to a sudden end. Past 10,000 years the mind seemed to close down – the stories, pictures, descriptions, philosophies and myriad artistry created by the returned travellers lessened. For a while panic set in. The first new returners came back blind and deaf, until at 10,500 years their bodies came back to earth silent and motionless, but still alive. The space centres decided to connect the hibernating minds to the largest computers ever built – in an attempt to understand what the returners were experiencing, in an attempt to reach them, revive them.

At 10,500 years of hibernation the human body, it was concluded, finally reached its limit. Beyond this the perpetual stillness and immobility seemed to pacify the flesh – make limb, bone, cell and gene – redundant, obsolete. Yet the mind continued, and still needed a warm home to thrive in, still needed a host to feed and sustain it. And what the vast technological brain of the computers churned out was, ultimately, undecipherable. The only conclusion possible was that Star Sight had grown beyond the comprehension of earth-bound thought. Some analysts thought there was movement in the black silent screens, some detected obscure sounds, some were convinced they felt something strange move within them as they gazed into the dark abyss. And some thought, radically, that the darkness, at times, was actually omitting light.

Unlike most voyagers born on other worlds who either volunteered to return to Earth for research purposes or who felt psychologically compelled to return ‘home’, these computer-connected returners never woke up – never regained conventional consciousness. So they were put away, held in pod-tombs beneath the surface of the earth – left to dream their dark dreams with flesh still warm and hearts still beating. Occasionally they were looked upon…the suspension fluid keeping their bodies in stasis – the rot and decay of time kept at bay just enough for their brains to go on existing. And the computers, however long the scientists stared, never gave back any clues. The detachment – of brain from body, mind from matter, once a dream desired by many, was never possible. Without a beating heart the machinations of the mind slowly go out – a flicker of light finally extinguished.

Despite the distances reached by the voyagers, no evidence of other life forms have been detected, this remains a catastrophic disappointment. We always hoped others were out there. Some returners claim to have had mysterious encounters but tangible evidence remains elusive. The colonised planets sustain pockets of life established by us – orchestrated by the endless stream of voyagers who found inhabitable zones and executed the protocols to establish sustainable life. Some offspring of the voyagers, born of extricated and modified DNA, chose not to experience Star Sight – chose instead to live out their days on other planets reviving the habits of their distant ancestors. Talking in old dialects, using the old tools, reliving the old rituals of birth and death seamlessly stitched together with that one enduring human trait that never quite disappeared – biological desire. But most of man drifted out to sea – alive, sleeping, on rustless, ageless ships pulled by the gravity of myriad planets, moons and stars – achieving man’s enduring aim that was with us from the very start – for Star Sight has given us, not a detachment from blood and bone, not just other worlds to call home – but cognitive immortality.

I saw it first by accident through the rain-blotted lens of my binoculars. I was reluctantly watching Oystercatchers on the behest of my partner when to my sheer delight (because buildings are far more interesting than birds!) I noticed a square shape on the horizon. Almost entirely swallowed up by cloud I could just make out a ruined mansion and beside it another hollowed out structure. I gasped – the last thing I expected to see on the northern edge of North Uist was a romantic spectacle such as this. I eagerly consulted the map and there it was as if out of a Tolkien wonderland: Vallay.

According to some frantic researching I did via the sporadic phone signal, the Baronial residence I could see through the binoculars was built in 1902 by Erskine Beveridge, a Scottish textile manufacturer, historian and photographer who passed the house onto his son. His son, however, drowned and from there the trail of Vallay House goes quiet. So, with my imagination at full throttle and with a few days left of our holiday we decided to check the following day’s tides and attempt the walk to the island.

So the next day we set off from the boggy edge of the strand – a seemingly infinite stretch of sand disappearing into mist – sometimes giving way to sparkling slivers of stream and tidal current. Because of the height of the water it seemed impossible to do the walk other than in bare foot and so we began our fast-paced and slightly nervous walk across. Our toes were numb from the icy water, but the hard sand felt lovely and it was wonderfully soothing to plod here and there through stream and river…interesting too to trace the movement of the tide…a rare chance to actually be in the midst of lunar gravity. This really was a thrilling experience as the weather seemed to throw everything at us at 5 minute intervals. First it was bright blue skies and dazzling sunshine, next ferocious wind and battering hail – downpours that whipped your skin turning clothes to rivers in seconds. In the Outer Hebrides soggy clothes and wind-whip are close companions.

Passing little islets and large stones covered in slippery seaweed and barnacles, the island, still engulfed by billows of cloud, drew ever closer. As if by magic as soon as we reached the edge of Vallay the sun made a brief but dazzling appearance. Eager to get exploring before the bad weather returned, I hobbled across the pebbles and weeds and once on the island I raced toward the Gothic ruin. The path leading up to it was dramatic in itself – the entrance had two turreted stone structures either side with an old farm gate half-open. I felt like a heroine in a Gothic novel racing up the path to meet her secret lover! Usually derelict buildings are boarded up and surrounded by fences and barriers – but not Vallay House. The doorways and window hollows were open and if one dared it was possible to go inside – to move among the broken walls, bits of fallen-in roof and general damage and detritus. I didn’t dare. The rain returned and so I circled the building – swooning and sighing and taking as many photos as I could. Parts of the old fireplaces were still intact, as were the original tiles and bits of coloured wall. I was devastated and enthralled in equal measure – what a tragedy to let such a beautiful building fall into disrepair, yet there is something so alluring about the process of decay. I felt like an intruder, a voyeur spying on something in the final throes of dying.

We only had an hour or so to explore the island until the tides would start coming in. So we briefly explored the other buildings and generally enjoyed being there on Vallay – entirely alone – surrounded by water, rock and carpets of entangled Machair. Given more time we would have explored the pristine stretch of beach we could see over the verge of a rolling hill. Given more time I would have lingered more in and around Vallay House. Reluctantly we made our way back across the strand, turning every so often to see the island grow ever smaller and bury itself ever deeper into the clouds. Visiting Vallay was the highlight of my trip to Scotland, an unexpected hidden jewel, and a place I hope to return to again and again.