Treats and Traps: A TeaserTouring a foreign country, whether it’s the UK or the Ukraine, is always a tale of treats and traps. Treats are rewarding and mind-changing experiences: places, people, sights and scenes that delight, surprise, inspire, and fire up your senses. Traps are, well, traps. Only worse. They make you wish you’d remained in Kg Pandan. It’s relative. A treat to you is a trap to your wife. The trick for a smart traveler is to anticipate and avoid the traps. Of course if it’s Ukraine, it’s 98% traps, to you and your wife, no relative here. If you’re born a loser, it could even be real, live traps. Sand traps, booby traps, marriage traps and the like.
But why would anybody want to visit Ukraine in the first place? Well, that’s not why I’m writing now. What I’m writing is actually about our recent 10-day UK getaway. Why UK? Because Air Asia doesn’t fly to France or Spain, that’s why. Actually you won’t go wrong with UK. It’s so well trodden, and the heavy hype in Malaysia has reached a pitch where if you’ve not been to London, you’ve not travelled. You may have solid proof that last year alone you’ve made five trips to Bandung for those Armani knock-offs, but Bandung is not London. UK is de rigueur for both serious and hilarious travelers. Just go to the travel section of any book store, you’ll find more guides on UK than France, Spain and Bandung combined.
The silver bullet for travel traps is preparation and more preparation. No short cuts or cheating like your college chemistry tests. In our case, we booked our flights in October 2009. We had a solid five months for planning, searching, arguing and online booking. I read Michelin, Fommer’s and almost all UK-related and unrelated websites, and drew up the best possible travel plans, complete with options and fallbacks. Fortune favors the prepared, somebody said. I knew, for example, which stretches of road in Wales had speed cameras. I could also tell you the night temperature in Lisbon. The problem is that Lisbon is not in UK. So much for more preparation. Honestly we’d never been this poised and primed for travel. We’re all set for a trap-free trip. Or at least that’s what we thought.
UK 101The United Kingdom comprises the tentative countries or states or regions or whatever of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Some of you may feel offended by this fifth-grade explanation, but one of my many sisters-in-law, if she happens to read this, may indeed find this useful and enlightening. She's a UPM graduate, nothing less, and she still thinks that Ottawa is the capital of Japan (Lisbon? Never mind). About 60 million people live in UK today, and naturally they are English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish and Pakistani. The country is made up of 60 shires with 647 castles and 1245 museums (OK, I made up the numbers, but you got the idea). Castles, like haggis and scones and afternoon tea, are really an acquired taste. If you’re culturally illiterate, like most Kelantanese are, you really need a lot of grooming and upbringing to appreciate the full grandeur and finer points of a castle, and even more training for all the 647 castles. Just about every industry, trade and settlement with more than 200 people has a dedicated museum. The British Museum, railway museum, ship museum, sheep museum, and so on. There’s even a museum museum to keep track of all the museums (yes, I made up this one, too). You don’t need training to see them all. You need a lot of stamina.
Most of us have a soft spot for anything English or British, thanks to childhood exposure, personal experience, English wife, or plain nostalgia. After all at one time we’re very much part of the now-defunct British Empire, together with Zimbabwe (Fortunately the British at that time couldn't find any economic value in merging Malaysia and Zimbabwe) There used to be a Padang Churchill and Tanjung Duff in Kelantan. While everyone knows that Susan Boyle is better-looking than Sir Winston Churchill, this Duff character remains a mystery. A railway clerk, maybe? Back in the 1950’s, we had some teachers trained in Kirkby, near Liverpool, to teach in the English-medium schools. I learned English words before I could speak standard Malay, and I had my share of run-ins with my maths teacher in form six, one Chris McLeod, from N Ireland. We still keep the name George Town for some reason. And, of course, the English Premier League and Wayne Rooney. Everyone now claims to be a diehard supporter of an EPL team. On an average day, all Malays will support Manchester United, all Indians (except Shebby Singh) support Liverpool, and the Chinese bet on any team that wins.
The Best-Laid PlansSince we’d spent so much on the low-cost flight, low-cost terminal and low-cost meals, it only made sense that we should go for maximum return on investment. The same concept apparently was at the core of our government’s investment in 1 Malaysia F1 Racing Team. To achieve this, we decided to roam the roads and reaches of England, Wales and Scotland by car, with the last three days in London. A driving tour of the length and breadth of UK, if you like. So much about these places had been written and bandied about - their scenic variety, deep history, cultural diversity, football hooligans- that the lure was just impossible to resist. Only ten days and in six degrees C, this UK foray looked overly ambitious, self-indulging but sure-fire fun. It’d be a journey of more than 3000 km through unfamiliar cities, towns, villages, lakes, farms and, you guess, castles. Our itinerary read like a National Geographic’s A-list: York, Durham, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Stirling, the Trossachs, the Lake District, Manchester, Chester, Wales, Stratford-upon-Avon, the Cotswolds, Stonehenge, Salisbury, London, and all things in between. These places came with stellar reputation and glowing recommendations, and our expectation was uncontrollable as the departure date neared.
We’re a mixed bag. As diverse as it gets: three male, three female, 10 - 60 age range, one housewife, one retiree, two working adults and two students, with interests diverging wildly from Cartoon Network to History Channel. Looking at our wayward profile, it’s almost impossible for anything on the list to please ALL of us. We would’ve been a statistician’s dream sample had it not been for one glaring glitch: one of us was born in Kelantan.
Peanuts and Hitler (12 March, Friday)We boarded Air Asia flight D7 2008 for the 3.50 pm flight to London Stansted Airport, expecting a cattle-car ambience. We couldn’t be more surprised and mistaken. The seat, the leg room and the pitch were anything but low-cost. Tony’s always one step ahead. No difference from the other airline (name begins with M) except for the free movies and peanuts. But for half the price, who’d need movies and peanuts.
The flight was long (13 hours) and smooth (no movies) and uneventful (no peanuts). Asrif, Aida and Sarah slept like a log after a round of low-cost meal. Fadli was reading Hitler’s Mein Kampf (heavy stuff. Give me peanuts). We landed at Stansted at about 11 pm local time or 5 am in KL. For us it’s early morning, mentally and physically. So we’re fresh and wide awake. Unlike Heathrow (where the other airline lands), Stansted was much smaller and friendlier. The crowd here was easier. No rich and rowdy Arabs to make a scene. No Indian immigration officer asking why we’re in his country. We’re cleared in under 30 minutes, and, hooray, there’s no customs to check our Brahim’s, Maggi and Old Town White Coffee. A great start for us.
York, York (13 March, Saturday)It’s five past midnight, an ungodly hour and a new day here. We’re still milling about the arrival lounge at Stansted, catching our breath and praising God after a long, safe flight. Aida and Sarah had yet to see anything worth bragging to friends. Fadli was browsing in W H Smith, a book shop. After picking up the key for our rented car from the Europcar counter, we wheeled out of the building towards the car park. What hit us was an early spring chill, about five degrees Celsius. Shivering, we quickly loaded our bags and literally jumped into the car. It’s a seven-seater VW Sharan MPV. Aida took the back seat, with bags all over her. Asrif turned on the heater and took the wheel. As it turned out Fadli, despite all the fancy reading, was still too young and needed special insurance to drive a rented car in UK. Did he also need a special insurance to read Hitler in UK? Who knew. We easily found our way out of the airport, and took the M11 and then A1 route towards our first stopover, York, about 300 km north east of England. This was really a defining and milestone moment for us: the beginning of a 3000 km, 10-day epic journey together, all six of us crammed up in one car. Imagine, at home we’d never been together like this for more than 16 minutes! Ah, tell me what’s sweeter than this.
It’s drizzling along the way. I’d call Aida every twenty minutes or so to make sure she’s still breathing behind the bags. After nearly four hours (4.30 in the morning), we stopped at a big 24 hr rest area outside York. Nobody else was around except the cashiers. All the shops, including a W H Smith, were wide open. Selling books on a highway at 4 am? You can’t get more literate and civilized than this. In a backpackers trade-mark style, we took the free hot plain water from the machine, made our own three-in-one Milo and shared one big muffin. For the record, a cup of coffee here would set you back RM5.00.
Dawn was breaking when we entered the medieval city of York. What greeted us in the early morning shroud simply took our breath away. The whole city was a castle. Partially walled with narrow entrances, the silhouette was hauntingly beautiful. The narrow streets, with some parts cobblestoned, were flanked by ancient buildings with unmistakable, timeless English character. Even Aida could appreciate this testament to early architectural elegance. I told her to do well in exams and come to study in York and live in this castle. We eased our way through the city and stopped at the city centre for some low-light shots before making our way out. York was a fleeting dream.
We’re back on the A1 leading to Durham, another old city with the famed Durham Castle. Our plan was to make a quick detour, find a sweet spot and take a few shots for the album. True enough the castle was the centrepiece of this city, and you could see its full bloom as you approached the city centre. I sat back to appreciate and wonder what’s the rate of return on this kind of investment. We turned back without resolving the issue and headed further north, past Newcastle before turning sharply west towards Carlisle and then north again to Glasgow, Scotland.
Durham showing off its prize assetThe B grade road to Carlisle was a single-lane affair, not far from the Scottish border. We chose this route to Glasgow with only one objective: Hadrian’s Wall. Parts of this route apparently ran parallel to a 100 km wall built by the Romans for the same reason the Chinese built the Great Wall. As we drove by the site, we’re straining to see any wall or any Chinese. Seriously, we couldn’t see any semblance of a wall. Aida, of course, couldn’t see anything. With bags and pastries around her, she’s completely unsighted. But the rest of us had a clear, open view of what’s around us. What we saw was nothing like the Great Wall. It’s just a meandering stretch of wall-like structure made of crude stones. This wall was supposed to be a defensive line against invaders (Scottish, not Chinese). But only three feet tall, this wall couldn’t keep out even the occasional stray lambs. With modern panties and boxer shorts not invented until 1000 years later, Hadrian must have figured that three feet was high enough to discourage the vicious Scottish marauders in skirts and kilts. Smart ass, this Hadrian. We stopped at a lay-by for some shots, and then drove on. Hadrian’s Wall, a World Heritage Site, was a let-down. A typical tourist trap.
Hadrian’s Wall and the comical engineer who built it.We joined the northbound M6 towards Glasgow at the Carlisle junction. As we crossed the Scottish border, we couldn’t help but notice a factory outlet on our left at the edge of the border town of Gretna. Since we had some time to kill, we dropped by to have a look, and rounded off rather quickly. A bit on the tame side compared to what we’d seen elsewhere. But there’s nothing tame about Gretna and the nearby border village of Gretna Green. They’re once notorious for quickie nuptials and marry-in-hurry (just like Las Vegas and Sg Golok) due to the more liberal Scottish marriage laws. At its height, even a blacksmith, believe it or not, could solemnize a marriage here!
Gretna and its blacksmiths were well behind us when we spotted the jutting skyline of Glasgow. After a journey of 700 km, we’re finally in Glasgow. We checked into a Premier Inn at Ballater Street, about one km south of the city centre. We’d booked two rooms online for 29 pounds each. It’s not a Hyatt or Hilton, but the rooms were clean and comfortable with en suite showers and heaters, certainly better than my old school dormitory. Glasgow was a city well past its prime. As an industrial centre, it’d seen better days. You didn’t feel the vibrancy and dynamism of, say, Bandung. Lately it’s been busy reinventing and rebranding itself into a European cultural hub. But the remnants and relics of its industrial past were everywhere. What they actually need is an F1 Team. The city has a population of about 600,000, evenly split, with 300,500 supporting Glasgow Celtic and the rest Glasgow Rangers. I first heard of these two football teams and their relentless rivalry way back in 1970, when they’re running European football. Now they’re European football’s running jokes.
It’s already late afternoon when we ventured out, heading for the city centre, melting into throngs of Glaswegians, tourists and Pakistanis. The hotspot at this time was George Square and Buchanan Street pedestrian mall, which were teeming with boutique shops and British brands including Marks & Spencer (M&S) and W H Smith, the bookseller. Flowing aimlessly with the crowd and braving the frigid climate, it’s quite an experience.
What a feeling! What a freezing!
Gay Glasgow: Trying hard to be hipTo be fair, there’s a lot to see in Glasgow if you’re truly curious and cosmopolitan. There’s plenty of high-minded stuff like museums, cathedrals, art galleries, opera house, gardens. But for us, it’s already late and it’d been a long day and a long way. It’s not the time for opera house. The only option was to drive back to Premier Inn. It’s only about two or three km away, but with only 54% of his brain mass actually working, Asrif lost his sense of direction and we took an hour to reach the hotel.
Trekking the Trossachs (14 March, Sunday)It’s 4.45 when I woke up. The body was still functioning on KL clock. It’s early but it’s Glasgow, Scotland. Everybody was up before 7 and ready for breakfast of Maggi and Brahim’s. Fresh and fit, we’re ready to invade Scotland. Our plan was to explore Scotland’s natural splendor: highlands, lochs, forests and glens. We’d be trekking the Trossachs, a national park with rugged landscape known for its scenic beauty, about 50 km north of Glasgow. The writer Sir Walter Scott had so deeply adored the Trossachs wilderness that he dubbed it ‘the scenery of a fairy dream’. I read only a simplified version of his ‘Ivanhoe’, so I was not well-placed to judge his trip advice. Anyway, if it’s dream to Walt, it’s dream to us.
Our Trossachs tour began at a small town of Aberfoyle. From Glasgow to Aberfoyle, it’s part motorway, part pretty country road running across open spaces, farms and dreamy villages. After a brief look-around at Aberfoyle’s Scottish Wool Centre, we’re all set for the Trossachs. The Trossachs trail from Aberfoyle climbed up treacherously, winding and twisting all the way along fenceless shoulders, passing peaks with patches of snow, treeless valleys, small settlements, and two lochs, before reaching the town of Callander at the other end after about half an hour. That’s all? That’s all. The panoramic views and vistas at various spots were impressive enough, but they didn’t exactly blow us away. Garden variety compared to, say, the majestic Grand Canyon. Which made us wonder why all the rage. To be fair, the route we took didn’t run the entire length and loop of the Trossachs, and we’re not sure whether early spring was the best time to sample it. Sorry Walt, your fairy founders, falling short of our expectation. But the anticipation and the experience was still well worth it. I’d still recommend it to my sisters-in-law.
Airy-fairy scenery: The TrossachsStirling, our next stopover, was no stranger. A good friend who studied here in early 1980’s still boasts that he’s from a top UK university (where top means top part of UK). Fadli’s co-worker is also a Stirling alumnus. Our earlier plan was just to pass by on the way to Edinburgh. But we couldn’t resist the sight of the sexy Stirling Castle precariously perching up high on the edge of a rock cliff. It gave a clever impression that it’s about to fall any moment. We drove all the way up a narrow lane, and passed its grand entrance and into the visitor centre inside. From the castle, you could savor the sweeping view of Stirling, its fringe and beyond. It’s just exhilarating, to say the least. At the end of it all, we had to rush down, fearing the great fall (joke).
Stirring view from Stirling castleWe reached Edinburgh, about 80 km from Stirling, at 4 pm or so. So much had been written and promised about this highly celebrated city that we could feel our pulse racing as we closed in. The city was every bit what we’d visualized. Old, dark and handsome, without being flashy or extravagant. There’s hardly a new building here. I read somewhere that the city was founded more than a thousand years ago. The whole city is technically a museum. For tourists who are serious (like Mr Bean) and hilarious (like Mr Bean), the city offers a repertoire of sights, experiences, landmarks and oddities to suit all fancies and peculiarities, but the crown jewel is no doubt the Edinburgh Castle. Built and destroyed and rebuilt on a huge and monstrous rock formation, it looms over the city, casting a giant shadow since the 11th century. Edinburgh was a visual feast, best consumed ‘as is, where is’. Just soak yourself in its atmosphere, its sheer expanse, steep history and rich culture. Don’t complicate it with mindless modern art, long castle queues and tiring theaters. It’d be easy on your legs, and even easier on your wallet. It’s also a good excuse for us to set up our base at Princes Street, a tourist thoroughfare and a vantage point for viewing the castle and anything in between. Princes Street was bursting with locals, transients and, yes, Pakistanis. Lining the street were the familiar names (including, yes, W H Smith, the bookseller) plus a couple of tourist-friendly gift outlets hawking odds and ends. Aida, Sarah and Ibu hopped in and out of the gift shops, stretching thin our ten-day supply of British pounds and my credit limit. Asrif was freezing outside, madly texting all his friends in Malaysia. Fadli, well, you know where he was. And me? Well, it’s a constant and personal struggle against the bone-biting and pee-pushing cold, even in four layers of cotton-rich garments. We took a quick driving tour of the venerable city, passing various landmarks, parks, gardens and unfamiliar structures, before finding the right way out. You need two or three days to really discover Edinburgh, not two to three hours. But even in the short time, the city was still worthy of all the rave reviews and our long journey. Edinburgh was a gem.
Iconic Edinburgh Castle: High, Dark and HandsomeThe way back to Glasgow was a quiet and controlled ride on the busy M8 motorway. I broke the repose, telling Aida to do well in exams so that she could come to Edinburgh to study. She replied ‘semalam Ayah kata York’. I said that? ‘OK, York or Edinburgh or Brown. As long as it’s not UPM’, I said. Without warning, Asrif swerved into a rest area for a coffee and texting break. We reached Glasgow and Premier Inn without complication. The texting break just now must’ve restored his sense of direction.
Poets and Philanderers (15 March, Monday)We’re still in Scotland. It’s our third and last day here. With another long trip ahead, we left quite early. Asrif was behind the wheel again, and Aida was behind the bags. We left Glasgow, heading 250 km south on motorway M6, to the Lake District, in the shire of Cumbria, England. Don’t ask me why it’s not Cumbriashire. Lake District is reputed to be one of the most beautiful spots in UK. It’s once a hotbed of romantic poets and classical writers. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Southey, to name but a few, at one time or another, visited or lived and wrote here. It’s fine if you’re not familiar with all or any of these literary greats (no reason to feel uncivilized or anything). Sir Walter Scott had purportedly visited and fallen in love with Lake District. Knowing Walt and his fairy story, there’s no surprise here.
The Lake District without the lakeFrom the M6 motorway, we turned westward into the A66 at Penrith to a small, pretty town of Keswick, where we began our Lake District detour. It’s a scenic and wondrous drive all the way to Keswick and from Keswick to other lovely lakeside towns within Lake District. The road cut across mountains, valleys, villages, meadows, rolling pastures, rivers and, of course, lakes and more lakes (100 of them, big, small, very small). We stopped again and again to capture the stunning and sublime scenery along the way. At a small lake town of Grasmere, we dropped by Dove Cottage, Wordsworth’s residence and now a museum. Millions of people descended on Grasmere every year to pay homage to this revered figure, but for us it’s nothing more than casual curiosity. The cottage was old but very well preserved. There’s an eerie air of serenity hovering about the place and everybody seemed to speak in whispers. ‘Di karet, sepi telah datang / pada akal puisimu yang bening dan bising’, wrote a Malay poet in his poetry piece “di kubur chairil”, a tribute to the Indonesian poet Chairil Anwar. The poetic parallel was palpable. Wordsworth, for all he’s worth, didn’t mean anything to Aida and Sarah. The closest they’d ever got to a literary experience was watching Lady Gaga. I bought a black t-shirt on sale with Wordsworth’s pearls of wisdom printed at the back: “Men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply”. He wrote that? Pretty pedestrian for a literary champion. I suppose it's harder to be a plumber. I’d never read his works myself. Must be heavier than Hitler. Modern English is stressful enough, why wrestle with the ancient version? I knew of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats et al just enough to get by and avoid any name mix-up with those footballers and philanderers.
Wordsworth’s poetry factory
Closest Malay translation: Pulau Pandan jauh ke tengah, Gunung Daik........ Finally Windermere. This town and lake of the same name is Lake District’s tourist centre. I couldn’t help but notice its touristy and overrun atmosphere. Nevertheless we spent more than an hour here, pursuing our divergent interests. Aida, Sarah and Ibu in and out of gift shops. Asrif madly texting his many friends. Fadli, well, you know. And I spent all the energy battling the climate change and chasing the toilet. We converged and immediately agreed on a well-deserved fish and chips. The Lake District was a fulfilling expedition, with Grasmere a clear standout. We came away inspired, but still not quite in the way that would convince even a retiree like me to turn to part-time poetry. Pottery is more likely. Or plumbing. We’ll talk about this later.
We rejoined the M6 at Kendal for a 100 km drive south to Manchester. We checked into a Travelodge on the M62 eastbound motorway rest area, together with some truckers. With two rooms at 19 pounds (less than RM 100) each room with three beds, bath and working heater, and free parking thrown in, it’s not hotel hell. There’s an M&S c- store and W H Smith (ha, ha) right next to the hotel. You couldn’t find a better value in this part of the world. We took a short trip to Manchester city centre, 10 km away, in the evening. Unlike Edinburgh or Glasgow, the city was comparatively modern, with new buildings and younger Pakistanis. It’s already late and nothing was open except the pubs. In no time we’re back at Travelodge and hit the sack.
I’m not hotel hellWhat’s this? What’s going on? Yes, in Welsh. Today we’d be exploring Wales, another state, region or whatever in UK. Wales has its own language and writing system, which is almost vowelless and clueless. For those who’re used to Kelantanese language, Welsh shouldn’t be intimidating.
We reached the town of Conwy, on the northern coast of Wales, late morning after a 150 km drive west of Manchester. The imposing Conwy Castle, another medieval architectural masterpiece, was right at the entrance of the walled city. Conwy was smaller than York, but the buildings and streets were almost of the same character. It’s here that we discovered Welsh language, thriving and functioning everywhere. All English names and words here were proudly translated into Welsh. Or the other way round, Welsh translated into English. ‘The oldest house in Conwy’ becomes ‘Y ty yhnof yng Nghonwy’ in Welsh (yes, only two vowels). 16 March is 16 Mawrth, not 17 Mawrth. Not only the city was old, its residents were also old (but not as old as the city). In an hour or so we’re in Conwy, we saw only one young couple with a baby. Where’re all the young people? Out playing rugby?
Y Gloch Las: Perempuan Melayu Terakhir (Translation)
Near Betws-y-Coed: This is NOT a postcard. We actually snapped this beauty. From Conwy we ventured inland, about 50 km south, to the village of Betws-y-Coed, in the county of Clwyd. We stopped for pastries and chips at a Tesco on the way out of Conwy. To reach Betws-y-Coed, we’d to pass the towns of Llansanffraid Glan Conwy, Craig Tal-y-Cafn Eglwysbach and Llanrwst. If I stack up the names, I’d have a short, instant poem, in Welsh. The road was narrow but the journey was short and sweet. Betws-y-Coed didn’t do justice to its graceful name. It’s as plain as pastry. There’re the usual stone houses, rivers, mountains and the stuff, nothing out of this world. Not even a public toilet was there to compensate for the disappointment. We took a different way out, and were immediately rewarded with a splendid view of the Welsh countryside. It’s a long and winding road with miles and miles of rolling fields and pastures, and villages with even more exotic names. We’re back on the A55 at a town of Abergele. Nothing off- beat here except for one particular car dealership that sold Proton cars, complete with a showroom full of Personas. Hardly anybody around when we stopped to get some shots.
Chic Chester (16 March, Tuesday) We’ve done Wales but we’re not done for the day. It’s still early, and there’s space for another excursion. This time it’s Chester. Located on the Welsh border, Chester was supposed to be an ancient city: Roman, walled, fortified, gated, just like Conwy and York. But once you’re in the city square, you’re smack in 2010. We’re impressed with its cool, clean and funky feel. The commercial centre was a network of pedestrian-only streets with rows and rows of overpowering black-and-white Tudor styled structures, mostly trendy shops, restaurants, department stores and a W H Smith. The evening crowd was surprisingly young. There were even schoolgirls running, prancing and crashing into equally upbeat strangers. We’re just happy to hang on, blending in with the festive crowd, and wondering why were there so many young people in Chester? Were they actually from Conwy? Since we’re not going to solve this little mystery here, the better option was to return to Manchester. On the way back to Manchester we diverted to Cheshire Oaks, a factory outlet mall of 60 stores selling mostly XXL and XXS size items made in 1986. We had only about an hour to cover 60 shops, or one shop a minute. I’d heard of speed dating, but speed shopping was something else. We managed this by spending the entire one hour only at one shop. Everybody, except Asrif, grabbed something at 5.99 pounds. He’s actually outside, madly texting all his friends.
Wales and Chester had been, in corporate speak, a productive and value-creating excursion. We learned a bit of Welsh. We saw, for the first time, a castle located at sea level. If you’re going to Manchester for some reason, or on the way to Scotland for no reason, we’d recommend a Conwy and Chester detour. One day is enough, but one week if you plan to spend one hour at every shop at Cheshire Oaks !
Funky town ChesterThis one is personal and football. If you want to skip this, go ahead. Believe it or not, I’m a full-time supporter of Manchester City Football Club. I’m not a supporter of Manchester United, never. Our Prime Minister can say five times a day on TV3 that he’s a Man U fan, I’m not interested. I supported Man City since the groovy year of 1968 (bell-bottoms and all) simply because I liked one particular player who played for the club, for the same reason my friend Hamid supported Man U because he’s crazy about George Best. So that’s the way it’s been for more than 40 years. I’d call and taunt Hamid whenever Man City sank Man U (roughly once in seven years). When Asrif and Fadli were growing up, I taught them the truth. That there’re only two teams in Manchester: Manchester City and Manchester City reserves. You could call this parental discretion. They had no choice but to support Man City, until now. Life as a Man City fan has never been easy. It’s all passion and patience. Agony and agony. The club has hardly won anything worth texting around. But that’s the whole idea. Where’s the fun of supporting a team that wins two or three titles a year, like those phony wrestlers.
We left Travelodge and took the fastest route to the City of Manchester Stadium, home of Manchester City FC. Finally we’re here. The sight and the feeling was simply incredible. It’d taken me more than 40 years to be here, to see the club in the flesh. I could sense the all-round buoyant and bullish mood around this club. And why not? Owned and bankrolled by a multi-billionaire sheikh, the club is now the richest in the world. This guy has more than enough cash in hand to buy Man U stadium and burn it down for fun. He's waiting for the right time. At Citystore, we went wild, grabbing team strips, club shirts, fridge magnets, key chains and other club merchandise. Amidst the buying binge, Asrif forgot to madly text his friends.
Ecstasy: After 40 years
Repeat after me: I hate Man U, I hate Man U. We hit the road again, taking the M6 towards Birmingham, about 200 km south. On the way we strayed into Stoke-on-Trent, a haven for potteries and ceramic, looking for factory shops selling discounted seconds English dinnerware (Wedgwood, Spode). This was actually unplanned, and decided only when we saw the road signs. But most factories and shops here actually had closed down a few years ago. We turned back empty-handed. Apparently UK’s proud pottery industry had been hit hard by cheaper china from China. At this rate, it’s only a matter of time before the poetry industry goes the way of the pottery industry. In case you’re not aware, about one million Chinese are now frantically learning Wordsworth and medieval English, and by 2015 they’re expected to flood the UK market with cheaper poems. Nothing is safe from cheaper Chinese exports, except plumbing. (Sounds like a cruel joke. Sorry)
It’s still early when we reached Birmingham, so we decided to improvise with a side trip to nearby Warwick, another historic city with a famous castle. Warwick Castle was a magnificent structure surrounded by gardens with narrow, high-walled lanes leading to its entrance. Sir Walter Scott (yes, that Walter Scott) had acclaimed the castle as ‘the fairest monument’. By now we’d all wised up to Walt and his fairies, enough as not to take his observation too seriously. With an extortionate per head admission fee of 20 pounds (money, not weight), we’re just happy to take some shots and use the hard-to-find toilet before turning back. We crossed the pleasant city of Warwick towards Stratford-upon-Avon.
Poets Part 2 (17 March, Wednesday)If Sarah thought we’re all done with dead poets, she’s dead wrong, because we’re going to Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace and home of William Shakespeare, the finest English poet, playwright and dramatist, also known as the Bard of Avon. The town of Stratford-upon-Avon, located in the district of Stratford-on-Avon, in the county of Stratford-under-Avon (I made up this one), is one of the hottest tourist attractions in the world, and we’re not going to miss it for the world. When we reached the town, it’s five past five, and everything was about to wind down for the day. The town was a delicate mix of the old and new. The main tourist hangout was Henley Street, where Shakespeare’s birthplace and Shakespeare Centre stood. The street was almost deserted when we stepped in, and only a few shops were still open, including the Shakespeare Book Store, where Fadli finally got hold of a hard-cover “The Complete Works of Shakespeare” as a companion to his Hitler. The city was heavily commercialized, with Shakespeare connections everywhere. Fommer’s was spot on when it concluded rather cynically that everyone here was out to make a buck off the Bard. Nobody would be surprised if there’s a Shakespeare Fried Chicken here. I sized up Shakespeare’s birthplace, a decent half-timber house, now a museum. It’s here that the Bard dreamed up all those sordid tales of trysts and treacheries, and left us the inspirational one liner ‘Et tu, Brute?’, which now comes in handy when your boss gets brutal upon seeing your KPI scores. Shakespeare was so good at his trade that conspiracy theories abound as to whether he used ghost writers (or even ghosts), or he’s doped (syabu, perhaps), or that he’s not sexually mainstream. Fancy Shakespeare a fraud, a junkie and a gay? Barbs off the Bard, I suppose. My own Shakespeare exposure is limited to a hilarious MAD Magazine parody of Julius Caesar plus a couple of Malay translations I read in the mid 60’s ‘Saudagar Venice’ and ‘Impian Di Pertengahan Musim Panas’. What would be the contextual translation of Macbeth? Your call, but Mat Rempit is fine with me.
Shakespeare wrote and doped here
Another tale of tryst?It’s already dark when we left the mouthful Stratford-upon-Avon for the straight-forward Birmingham. We checked into a Travelodge at Maypole Road, just outside Birmingham. The Travelodge here was newer and more spacious, also at 19 pounds per room (money, not weight). There’s a Sainsbury’s across the road just in case we needed chips and pastries.
It’d been a fun-packed day. Football, pottery and Shakespeare. What a potent concoction. I certainly wouldn’t recommend City of Manchester Stadium to our PM or his lovely wife. But personally I wouldn’t trade it for anything on this trip. Warwick Castle should be in your list if you’ve plenty of time and pounds to burn (both money and weight). Shakespeare? By all means. The fame and name alone should be enough motivation to be there. If you’re a theatre freak, plays are all year round.
Beauty (18 March, Thursday)Birmingham and its surrounding area is often referred to as the heart of England. We’d covered part of it yesterday, and today we’d be roaming the rest and, maybe, the best of it. We’re off early (which means at about 10 or so), cruising rural roads to the tune of Canned Heat’s classic ‘On the Road Again’ blaring out from the car audio. Our destination was Worcester, just 30 km south, the home of the world famous Worcester Sauce and Royal Worcester Porcelain. We’re not interested in the sauce because nothing on earth could be better than Saus Manis ABC. We’re after the Worcester porcelain and china which was supposed to be the world’s finest and available here at bargain prices at seconds shop at the factory. Aida squirmed at the prospect of sharing her tight space with porcelain. But we’re in for another disappointment when we’re told by a service station cashier that the factory had closed down two years ago. But there’s a museum, he added. Of course there’s a museum, we knew that. Just like the one in Stoke, the factory here had fallen on hard times. But the town of Worcester was surprisingly good looking, and drifting through it more than made up for the little let down.
From Worcester we headed south-east to another tourist hotspot called the Cotswolds. This area had some of the most charming villages in UK. One of them was Broadway. True enough, Broadway was a sleeping beauty. It’s open and spacious, with a generous layout of trees, gardens and lawns. The stone-rich buildings were an architectural delight. Old, quaint and English, what’s not to love? You’d wonder how did these people build and keep this village this way for so long. I guess things were easier without illegal immigrants. The dreamy, idyllic and laidback setting was almost surreal. Far from the madding crowd, you’d say. I just wished my artistic brother-in- law and his equally artistic wife were here. They’d fall in love with Broadway and even decide not to go back to working with the madding crowds at MBB and Mida.
Walking down the main street of this 15th century village was a pleasure beyond compare. Was it because of the free admission? Joke aside, it’s the loveliest street I’d ever seen. We couldn’t help but sneak in and out of its many dainty shops, with no real intention to buy anything. I still ended up buying a print of the village though. You should see it.
Breathless Broadway: No illegal immigrants here? 
Me and Broadway. Better than me and USJ.From Broadway, we swung south about 10 km to the market town of Chipping Campden, Boadway’s main rival for the prettiest village title. It’s a pity that they’re so near to each other. What we saw was what you’d see on a postcard. But Chipping Campden was more compact and livelier with rows of stone houses and structures of varied styles on both sides of the main street. The crowd was thicker here, just visiting or hunting for bargain crystals or tea set at the corner shops. Fadli was checking out the two bookshops here. If he’s in luck he could even find a rare Shakespeare’s “ Incomplete works”, as a companion to “the Complete Works” he’d bought yesterday.
Chipping Campden: We’re prettier than Broadway, ask him.Actually I’d lined up two more Cotswold villages (Painswick and Bibury) in today’s agenda. But from my thirty years of working my butt off in Petronas, I could scent the onset of low motivation with an 80% accuracy. It’s clear enough to me that the guys and the girls had had enough of pretty villages, English architecture and Sir Walter Scott. They wanted something different, something that could capture their imagination. Aida and Sarah, for example, wanted KFC’s cheesy wedges.
From Chipping Campden, we dipped further south toward Amesbury, about 200km away in Wiltshire. We reached Amesbury after about two hours, and pressed on westward for about 20 km before coming face to face with Stonehenge. The guys and the girls literally woke up to the sight of this so-called prehistoric monument. For the first time in about a week they’re looking at an anti-architecture. Just a circle of stones. It’s so devoid of design, taste and style that nobody had been able to link it to anything. ‘A prehistoric monument’ doesn’t amount to much. My parents’ house in Kelantan is technically a monument and figuratively prehistoric. But let’s not split hairs here. The point is Stonehenge is overrated and oversold. We walked past two busloads of German-speaking Germans who swore in German after they’re made to circle the stones by their guide. The only consolation was the panoramic view of Salisbury Plain, the rolling plains and pastures surrounding Stonehenge. Bleak and wind-swept in early spring, it’s much more dramatic than our prehistoric prima donna. Fadli seemed to be the only one among us and the Germans who’s genuinely interested. Asrif was madly texting his friends.
Don’t come here, it’s only stones.Our plan was to actually return to where we’d started: Stansted Airport. But we still had an unfinished business. It’s drizzling when we showed up at the historic city of Salisbury, about 20 km south of Stonehenge. Where did I come across the name Salisbury before? Medieval rockers? Vegetable (no, that’s parsley)? A street in Taiping? Too old to recall. The tourist catch here was the cathedral, which towered over the city. Salisbury itself was a pretty sight with old stone buildings, but the rain had dampened our mood for adventure. We lingered for a while, just drifting and harboring a sliver of hope that we might stumble on a shop full of bargain dinner sets. There’s one actually, Watsons, on Queen Street. You’d heard it before and you heard it again: it went out of business two years ago.
It’s still raining when we found our way out of Salisbury. It’s 200 km to Stansted, mostly motorway. It’s already dark when we joined the M3 towards London and then onto the M25 orbiting London towards Stansted on the east side. We finally checked into a Travelodge about 6 km from the airport.
It’d been a trip of contrasts. The flawless beauty of Broadway and the beast in Stonehenge. The Cotswolds is a treasure, and, in hindsight, deserves more time. You don’t have to be an architect or an artist (like brother in law) to appreciate its character and charisma. All you need is good eyesight and a free mind. Stonehenge is, well, better never than late. No, really, that’s too harsh for a World Heritage. Don’t go to Stonehenge just for Stonehenge. You must wander a bit (Salisbury and Bath are nearby) to get your money’s worth. Otherwise skip Stonehenge and go for cheesy wedges.
Salisbury. Not Taiping.We’d be going to Stansted, but we’re not going back to KL just yet. We’d not done London, remember. What? You scream. All this winding and twisting travelling tale and more of the same? But if you’ve come this far, I’m sure you’re game for more.
We packed up, left Travelodge and were in Stansted in less than 20 minutes. We returned the well-behaved car with the odometer clocking 3293 miles. It’s 1390 miles when we took it, meaning we’d logged 1903 miles or 3045 km! That’s a massive travelling by any standard, about 500 km everyday for six days. That’s about it, the end of roaring road trip. From Stansted we’d be going to London by a National Express bus to avoid the hassle of London driving: jams, congestion charge, parking fees, double deckers, horses, loss of sense of direction, Pakistanis etc.
We got off at a Park Lane bus stop near Marble Arch in London at about 1 pm. It’s drizzling and dead cold in London. We had to lug nine pieces of bags across the street to our hotel at Portman Square, about 200 metres away. We’re booked at Hyatt Regency the Churchill. No, we didn’t win a Petronas station lucky draw or anything like that. I was using my Hyatt loyalty points amassed during business travels to Jakarta and Bangkok. We got two connecting rooms and, despite the fancy branding, the rooms were only slightly bigger than Travelodge.
There’s no specific program for London. The guys had their own plans. Asrif had a friend in London and planned to catch up with him. Fadli wanted to see the British Museum and Tate Museum of Modern Art (what’s wrong with this guy). I hope he’s not also visiting the British Rail Authority. That left the four of us, and no discussion here because Aida and Sarah had already decided on Madame Tussaud’s, firm and final. It’s raining when we walked to Madame Tussaud’s on Marylebone Road, about 1 km from our hotel. Aida and Sarah were all fired up as we went in. All the famous and infamous, beauties and the beasts, were here in wax. Nothing much for a retiree, though, but the girls seemed to enjoy this tremendously. I must’ve done more than hundred shots here. Aida with Diana. Sarah with Beckham. Ibu with Shah Ruk. Aida with Audrey Hepburn (her idol). Sarah with Beyonce. Ibu with Salman (Khan, not Rushdie). Sarah with I-don’t-know-who. Me and Mugabe. And so on. There’re a couple of passable side-shows to add some variety to the whole thing. The girls enjoyed it, so I enjoyed it. On the way back to hotel, we stopped at a Tesco Express to buy you-know-what.
Me and Audrey. Pity she’s all wax. Still without any plan, we spent some time looking at the options. It’s drizzling again outside. We decided on Portobello Road Market, since it’s hip and happening on Saturday. Asrif was out with his friend again today. We took the tube from Marble Arch to Notting Hill Gate station for Portobello Road. This market is a haven for antiques, farm produce, food and art. The crowd was unbelievable despite the weather. People of all cultures and interests were here, drawn by the promise of bargains and basement prices. The dealers were all over the narrow street showing off their wares. It’s here that we finally found what we’re looking for: the elusive dinner set. Old, English design, pinkish red, made in Staffordshire, England. Twelve pieces for 35 pounds or RM 180. We bought it from a seller named Wayne. He had an earring (not sure which ear, left or right). The last twelve pieces, he said, and he made only 5 pounds. Should we believe a man with earring?
Pasar tani PortobelloThe drizzle turned into showers, and it’s colder than Edinburgh now. Not the best time to see London landmarks. It’s time to stay indoor and close to the toilet. From Portobello Market we moved on to Camden Town and got drenched in the driving rain. Camden, a tourist trap, was forgettable. Finally we’re back in Marble Arch and into the famous M&S store on Oxford Street. We’re looking at food choices and varieties in the food section when we bumped into a Malay family. We’re about to greet them when they turned the other way. It’s the sad, unwritten code of ethics in London that Malays will look the other way when they see their kind, unless they happen to be Kelantanese. (It’s free-for-all when Kelantanese meet Kelantanese in London).
We spent the evening at Harrods, burning with curiosity about the trappings of the high life. This iconic institution was almost deserted except for the restaurants. No Portobello crowd here. Only overpaid footballers and their wags. We roamed the floors, gasping openly at the prices. After only two floors, we thought we’d seen them all. And there’s that sad memorial to Diana and Dodi on the basement. You could almost feel a father’s deep sense of loss and anger.
London Town 3 – London Landmarks and Comedians (21 March, Sunday)Morning was clear, and we’re beginning to feel we’re too long in London, especially in this freakish weather. Maybe the famous landmarks could lift our spirits a bit. All six of us took the tube to Westminster Station for a tour of the Westminster area, where a number of travel-guide landmarks were located. Out of the station, we had a good view of the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and London Eye. Huge crowd here, all with the same idea. We just followed the crowd which somehow moved in one direction. Must be the herd instinct. Crossing Westminster Bridge, we strolled past Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Downing Street, Whitehall, and right up to Trafalgar Square before turning left along the Mall and onto the beautiful St James’s Park towards Buckingham Palace at the far end. I wasn’t sure whether Sarah was inspired by all this. She’s still very much into Barbies and Bratz. We took the tube at Green Park to Covent Garden. Sunday market at Covent Garden was packed with tourists from Bulgaria, and vendors were having a field day fleecing them. We stayed on for a while to watch a street performance by a black stand-up comedian. All comedians in the world are black.
Actually we’d prefer Raja Lawak on Astro. After Covent Garden, Fadli split and off to museums. Asrif must be somewhere in London, madly texting his friends. I was back on Oxford Street with Ibu and the girls, ambling back and forth with the swelling afternoon crowd. The street was choked with people of all origins and shades, coming and going in all directions. They looked comfortable, confident, even with a hint of swagger, and as much at home in London as they’re in Karachi or Kampala. I guess here the Indians, Ugandans, Jamaicans, Pakistanis (yes) and even Kelantanese feel quite rightly that they have as much moral claim to Central London as the English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish do. And why not? Hyatt Regency the Churchill in the centre of London and Padang Churchill in the centre of Kota Bharu. “bahawa sejarah harus dibayar dengan sejarah/ dosa yang terkumpul/di beratus pulau dan negeri/perlu ditebus di pusat London”. Wrote a Malay poet laureate in his early poetry piece ‘England di musim bunga’, an allusion to British colonial past and plunder. Man, this is some serious stuff.
St James‘s Park underexposed
No prize for guessing the one from Kelantan.Our last day in London. Weather looked good, and it should last for the next hour or so. Last night all of us had to squeeze into one room because we had to give up one room. Actually more than three people in one hotel room is illegal in UK (but not in Ukraine). But since a Kelantanese has an equal right to central London, we thought we had a pretty strong case. We took the opportunity to have ice breaking and filial bonding sessions while trying to find enough space to breathe. So this morning we’re friendlier than normal to each other, salam, good morning, sorry, please sir may I go out and so on. But, just like the English weather, it should last for the next hour or so.
Fadli was out early on the last leg of his museum and book store tour. Asrif decided to go out a bit later because he’s not done with his mad texting. We had to check out at three, and not much time left. It’s already ten when I was out on Oxford Street with Ibu and the girls floating with the crowd, most of the time at M&S. It’s about the only place that we didn’t really feel out of place in London. Prices were purse-friendly, too. And we bought pastries again.
We checked out at three and waited for our bus at the hotel lobby until about six, when we had to drag our bags again, now heavier, to the National Express bus stop about 20 metres away on Portman Street. The bus pulled up at 6.15 and we’re on our way to Stansted.
We’re at Stansted at about 7.30, and the Air Asia counter was still closed for the 11.20 flight to KL. I pondered worriedly over our bulging bags, which looked twice the 60 kg luggage allowance purchased. True enough we had to cough up 45 pounds for excess. Other than that, no complaint. Stansted even had a surau, apart from three W H Smiths. There’s no immigration, and security hassle was no worse than expected. One security guy even called out ‘kasut, kasut’ to liven things up. He’s black. I was right about the comedians.
Sweet Home (23 March, Tuesday)We landed at LCCT at 8 evening, half an hour ahead of schedule. We came out of the plane and right into the pressure cooker. Hot, humid and home. For Aida and Sarah, it’s hot, humid and homework!
A Final WordThe journey of a lifetime! You’ve heard that said time and again by returning travelers. Romping through beautiful places is a richly rewarding and life lasting experience. Our ten-day UK road trip is just that, and more. I don’t want to get overdramatic, but all of us together in one car for 3000 km is certainly an affair to remember. It’s yet to sink in. We hardly travel together at home, never mind sleeping in one room. I’m struggling to compare the experience to anything. Treats or traps, it doesn’t matter anymore.
Before I leave, let’s have one final fling of fun. I’m going to list the top five UK experiences for each of us. But that’s still not the fun part. The real fun part is that each list is not based on what they think. It’s based on what I think:
My list: 1. Broadway 2. York (Rest area/city) 3. City Of Manchester Stadium 4. Edinburgh 5. Conwy
Ibu: 1. M&S 2.Edinburgh Gift Shops 3. Portobello Market 4. Broadway 5. Shah Ruk
Asrif: 1. City of Manchester Stadium 2. Driving 3000km in six days 3. Buying a prepaid in Glasgow 4. Texting in Chester 5. Texting in Edinburgh
Fadli: 1. London museums/bookshops 2. Edinburgh 3. Stonehenge 4. Conwy 5. W H Smiths (all 23 of them).
Aida: 1. Madame Tussaud’s (with Audrey Hepburn) 2. York 3. M&S 4. Hyatt 5. Harrods
Sarah: 1. Madame Tussaud’s 2. Hyatt 3.Madame Tussauds 4. Bratz 5. Madame Tussaud’s
Their actual lists maybe different, but who wants to know?
Where’s my homework?
Still in faraway Broadway. 
