Blog
Thursday August 19, 2010
View from the top
Sometimes we all do silly things. I knew that climbing Mount Psiloritis, the highest mountain in Crete, alone, in July, was going to be pretty silly. And so it proved. But I didn’t realise quite how important it is to keep doing silly things till I got to the top.
The mountain, on paper, isn’t attractive: a barren expanse of rock, 8,000 feet at its peak, with scarcely a tree above 6,000 feet. There’s no shade to speak of, no sources of water, and no railway to get you to the top (eat your heart out, Snowdon). The most common walk up is an 8-hour return slog from the Nida plateau, which sounds horrible. I didn’t try it. I got a map, and found an alternative: a 15km dirt track that wound its way from the village of Kouroutes to a mountain shelter, cutting the walking distance almost in half. Reader, I drove.
What I wasn’t to know was that the drive would be the hairiest part of the trip. Greek mountain roads are narrow, strewn with rocks, unprotected by such novelties as crash barriers, and with more hairpins than Kate Moss. They aren’t designed for rented cars with low clearance, a dodgy gearbox and a driver who has only had a licence for two years. But hey ho. I made it. I might not have done, but I did.
Another surprise: when I got to the shelter, it was cold. Bitterly cold. This is Crete in July, remember: but I had to wear every scrap of clothing I had in my pack, including the waterproof anorak I’d bought the previous day from an amused shopkeeper by the coast. I then took my first steps up the hill – and was blown almost off my feet. Honestly. The wind was so gusty that for the first half-hour, I had to wait for a lull every time I wanted to take a step up.
But there were pleasant surprises. The route, part of the E4 long-distance trail, was well marked. For the first hour, it was shaded by the mountain itself: there were times when the whole valley around me was bathed in sunshine, and I was in the shadow of the ridge. But slowly it got hotter and the sun got higher and progress became harder, and my ration of one muesli bar every half-hour suddenly didn’t quite seem enough.
But I made it to the top. And oh: you have to know about the top. There are views to the sea to the north and south. There are clouds, below you – and below that, the entire Amari valley, famous heartland of the Cretan resistance, laid out like a map. There are birds of prey that swoop up and down the currents on the clifftop. There is a chapel, and a little rickety ladder which you can climb up to stand on the roof (this was probably the silliest thing of all) – and a little handbell resting on top. And as you stand taking it in, there is a feeling of peace with the world: whatever I do in the future, whatever mistakes I make, nothing can quite beat this.
And then my phone rang, and I took a work call. But as I say, we all do silly things.
Tuesday March 31, 2009
The secret language of IKEA
If ever there was a copywriting job I would love to do, it would have to be the person who dreams up all the silly names of the products in IKEA.
I’ve spent nearly a dozen weekends of the past six months in IKEA Nicosia – and even though I don’t speak a word of any Scandinavian language, I have been, by turns, amused and hooked by the power of these miniature brands.
Here are my favourites:
1. FYRKLÖVER. Cushions. For doing what on with your lover? I shudder to think.
2. KARDEMUMMA. A plant pot. Clearly a riff on “cardamom”, but also a relaxing image of your mamma in a cardie, perhaps in her greenhouse.
3. LACK. The ultra-basic range. If you lack money, buy this.
4. PJATTERYD. A photo of an olive branch. (Tasteful, but weird when you’re in Cyprus and can take a photo of an olive branch any time you like.) The name suggests “pattern” but is also faintly onomatopoeic, suggesting the spattering of paint on canvas. Sort of.
5. TROLLSTA. A side-table. Under which a troll might live?
6. BEDDINGE. Bedding. Sometimes simple is best.
7. TOBIAS, SEBASTIAN, GILBERT , BENJAMIN , MARTIN, HERMAN and LINUS. All chairs. On which Tobias, Sebastian, Gilbert, Benjamin, Martin, Herman and Linus would sit and watch Sweden grind out a 0-0 draw.
8. BLOMSTER. An artificial flower, with matching pink vase.
9. JOKKMOKK. A wooden table and four wooden chairs. No idea why it is called this, but it sounds a bit like Muttley laughing. Which is the noise I made when I realised how cheap it was. €89? How do they do that?
10. PATRULL. A hob guard. Patrols your hob against the threat of a scalded child.
11. SULTAN. A range of mattresses, on which you can recline like a Sultan. Or sink like a Sultana. Or eat sultanas. Or do anything comfortable and flat.
Like all the best marketing, these mini-brands work even when you notice them working. Only last weekend my girlfriend and I bought a chest of drawers from IKEA. But did we ever refer to it as “chest of drawers”? Never. As far as we were concerned we bought, and built, a “Malm”.
Malm is derived, like many IKEA furniture lines, from a Swedish place – in this case Malmö. And it works – by evoking a sense of minimalist, essentially Scandinavian style.
We’ve got a Karlstad sofa too. Who knows – one day, we might even go there.
Wednesday February 11, 2009
Sign of the times - Number 2
Danger: don’t throw heads at people who live in pits.
I saw this when I was touring northern Scotland a couple of years back… a great holiday which allowed me to espouse my theory (much repeated and to general derision) that Scotland is basically Greece up-side-down. More on that later.
Friday January 16, 2009
Bird strikes - really so rare?
It’s already one of the defining images of 2009 – the photograph of a US Airways plane floating in the Hudson river, its passengers being led to safety from the wings. New Yorkers are calling it the Miracle on the Hudson, and they would be right.
The plane was brought down, it is widely reported, by a double bird strike – in other words, birds were ingested into both of its engines, which meant the plane lost power and the pilot had to ditch. For birds to bring down an airliner is, thankfully, very rare – but that doesn’t mean the bird strikes themselves are rare. In fact, experts say, they happen more often than you would care to imagine.
Twenty-five years ago, I was on a plane that was involved in a bird strike. We were flying British Airways from Larnaca, Cyprus, to London Heathrow, and we had started our takeoff roll when – bang! – a bird was ingested into our right engine. For a second or two, it was seriously scary – but we slowed down rapidly and the plane stopped well before the end of the runway. Minus one bird, minus one engine, we went back for an extra night in a Larnaca hotel.
Between 1990 and 2004, according to the Bird Strike Committee USA, a group formed to collate and analyse accurate data on bird strikes, there were 56,000 reported bird strikes in the US alone – which may be a fraction of the true total, the committee says. The problem may never be eradicated, but anti-bird strike measures are needed, especially in airports near lakes and estuaries where birds congregate.
Here in Cyprus, there is increased attention on bird strikes after a series of recent incidents. Two months ago, a Cyprus Airways plane hit a flock of birds at Larnaca, according to the Cyprus Mail. There were 28 strikes between April and August 2007, of which 18 were at Paphos, the newspaper reported.
One of the biggest fears among Cyprus Airways pilots is hitting one of the flamingoes from the salt lake, a protected area right next to Larnaca airport. As greater flamingoes can grow more than a metre long and weigh eight pounds, you’ll know about it when you hit one of those.
Thursday January 15, 2009
Sign of the times - Number 1
When I’m out and about, I always try and take photos of the bizarre signs that people feel the need to put up – on doors, by roads, near cliff edges, etc. This one’s from Soho, central London – and when I lived in London, I must have walked past it hundreds of times before I finally spotted it.
Thursday November 6, 2008
A volta in Malta
“Can a country really be this small?” That’s the first thing you think when you’re flying into Malta – especially when you’re in an Emirates plane more suited to transcontinental journeys than the two-hour hop from Larnaca. But for a small country, it packs a massive punch.
Almost as soon as we arrived we were greeted by the kind of thunderstorm the Mediterranean is famous for – short, sharp and dramatic. We sat in Marsaxlokk harbour under an umbrella, watching the forked lightning streak across the sky behind the fishing boats, and I felt like the narrator in Zorba the Greek – sheltering from the rain in Piraeus, waiting for something to happen, just as the irrepressible Zorba wanders into his life.
We met no Zorbas but did encounter some Greek-style drivers as we drove in failing light and driving rain to our hotel. Malta’s overcrowded road network is like a mini-Scalectrix set, with extra potholes for good measure – it’s impossible to go seriously fast because of all the bends, but that doesn’t stop the Maltese from tailgating and undertaking at will. The biggest problem, in fact, is the lack of visible road markings – the Maltese know where the stop lines are supposed to be, but when you don’t, you could be in trouble – as we were when we found ourselves narrowly avoiding a head-on smash with a Merc.
Fortunately, cars are banned from Mdina, the dramatic medieval town where, mapless, we eventually tracked down our hotel – the Xara Palace. The hotel was a highlight of our trip – an 18th-century palace set into the city walls, with views across the whole island. We found a special rate of €450 all-in for our three-day stay – a bargain, considering the service and the atmosphere, not to mention the chance to stay in Mdina after the tourist hordes had gone home.
Next morning we visited the Maltese capital, Valletta. It’s a beautiful mish-mash of a city, with influences from all over the world: its restaurants remind you of Italy, but its centre feels like the Barrio Alto in Lisbon, its rough-and-ready areas like Tangiers, and to watch the yellow, 1950s cars and buses making their way through the city streets, you might even imagine you were in Cuba. But then, of course, you stumble across a UK-style postbox or naval store, and you remember the island’s long maritime association with the UK.
For me, the links with the UK were personal – my grandfather, a Pompey man, had been part of the Malta convoys during the War – and had been stationed here in the 30s before returning home after the conflict.
Across the Valletta are the “Three Cities”, which protect the inlets of the Grand Harbour on its eastern side – and we were lucky enough to find a Saturday-night festival taking place in Vittorioso, the biggest of the three. Although late at night, it was very much a family affair – with beer and pork sandwiches being sold at street stalls, a brass band playing in the main square, and despite the late hour, all the museums open for business – including the 16th-century Inquistors’ Palace, and a maritime museum which reminded me of the one in Portsmouth.
If you ever get the chance to visit Malta’s second island, Gozo, then do. It’s a complete change of scene – and offers a chance to visit Malta’s only serious beach, at Dwejra. The sun came out and I had a go at snorkelling – before visiting the island’s medieval capital, Rabat, amid another bout of driving rain.
Despite the small size of the country, I left feeling that Malta was somewhere I could live. If I didn’t already live on an even crazier Mediterranean island, that is.
Thursday September 18, 2008
Business as usual - from Cyprus
So, I’ve made the big move. I’ve left London – and arrived, Aphrodite-like, on the shores of Cyprus. Think Ursula Andress in Dr No, in a slightly bigger pair of Speedos. And carrying a bottle of Keo beer.
I’m here in Cyprus for the next three years – during which time it’s business as usual on the writing front. There’s broadband here, which means I’m still available for commissions at the email address at the bottom of the page – and I can still file copy at short notice. I’ve already filed a few pieces from here, so things are as they were when I left off… except a bit sunnier, which will of course be reflected in the copy!
Thanks to the wonders of Skype, I can also be contacted in Cyprus on a London, UK, number. If you want to discuss a project, just call 020 7617 7514 and the call will divert to here at my expense. Be prepared to let it ring a bit, as it takes a few seconds to connect – and after that, I’ll come a-running…
All content © Chris Alden. Original design by Andy Brockie, adapted by Chris Alden over the years.