Can a Travel Writer take a vacation?

Kissing Fish in Boston

“E tu Brute?”

So greeted me my editor at The Royal Gazette, Bermuda’s National newspaper, two days after I had handed in my notice to the Editor and Chief in December 2008.

“Uh….sorry,” is about all I could pitifully squeak out. Stabbing in his back is not exactly what I planned. No, I had planned to go travel around the world. Slightly a different affair.

Luckily he recovered from the wound and attempted another approach: “How would you feel about writing about your travels? It wouldn’t have to be on a regular basis or long.”

That offer required no thinking: “Yes, of course!”

What transpired was a weekly column, which followed my trials and tribulations through 24 countries in one year.

When I returned to Bermuda (my home) one question remained: “Would the column continue?”

I didn’t want to give-up my new-found love. I fought for its continuation, but from the point of analysis and any small trips I might take, rather than from around the world.

Now it’s been almost a year since I have been maintaining the Rock Fever Column and I have one question: Can a travel writer take a vacation?

No, seriously. I can hear you accountants and desk hounds scoffing. “Robyn, seriously, you have to have adventures for your job. How can you ask us this?”

“I told you, yes, I am serious.”

I might be serious, but I’m not naive. I get that I have a good gig writing a column about travel. But what about

The smallest violin in the world playing "My heart bleeds for you" as my father would demonstrate

when I don’t want to write? Or think about writing?

Yeah, yeah I hear your heart strings playing for me. Or as my father would demonstrate like the photo to the right: “My heart bleeds for you” played on the smallest violin in the world.

But seriously, (have I said seriously enough? ok enough questions) when do I get to turn my brain off?

The weird thing for travel writers (I humbly include myself here for arguments sake) is that when we head to vacation spots it’s not a holiday.

When accountants head for the beach (what is my deal with accountants today?) they are heading for a relaxing time. Instead for the writer everything in front of us is possible substance for a travel column or article.

Well, at least for me. That hotwire booking in this week’s Rock Fever Column? Oh that derived from my New Year’s trip to Vermont and Boston.

But with deciding to write about the actual trip to Vermont and Boston I was stuck by a conundrum and this blog post. That’s because I traveled with two friends from the states, a friend from England and a Canadian friend. I knew if I was going to travel with this many people I would never get a break to write something.

I also knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do whatever I wanted to do i.e. investigate things for my column.

I would not be able to travel simply to ensure I had the best priced options for Bermudians or travel simply to discover some new place simply to write about it.

Well, I can’t place all of the blame on my friends. I also felt like having a vacation. I know, crazy, right?

“But how can you go away so soon, you were just on a trip?”

Technically, you are correct. I was in London for a month working on ten columns about ten trips that someone could take from this capital city.

Visiting Vermont

But there again you see the important word, right? No, not London. Not trips. Nope. I am talking about “working”. Believe me I love traveling. I love discovering new places and having my senses bombarded by new experiences.

When I am traveling for my column, though, it’s not the same thing. I experience things, but I also look at everything as: “how will I write about this?”, “Will this make a good entry?”, “Will anyone really want to have some suggestions for visiting Dover?” “What about Berlin?”

I swear! These are all questions (and more) that run through my head while I travel. I never stop thinking about who might read about my adventures.

So what was I going to do in Vermont? Was I going to be able to take a vacation? It didn’t sound, with four friends joining me, that I was going to have much of a choice.

While they may have turned-off my choices, they couldn’t turn off my brain.

As soon as we arrived we had to pick-up the car. “Hmmm he booked the car for a discount price. That could be a column!”

My friend Lauren is a photo buff. We couldn’t keep her contained inside the house for long: “Best places in Vermont for photography?”

Out of the five of us, only one could ski. Yeah, that was me a Bermudian. Go figure. I was with four others from cold places and the sub-tropical girl knew how to use two planks to get down a ski hill.

Next Column: “How to teach beginner skiers to ski.” (Hint: don’t teach them! Hire an instructor!)

The tap wouldn’t turn off. We visited Sugarbush farm. “Sunsets in Vermont,” “Family farms to visit.”

Visiting Boston

Ok getting ridiculous. I know, but I couldn’t stop…..what did stop me? Well that would be technology. My little lap top that traveled around the world with me? It decided to throw a couple of keys out and I couldn’t type.

By the time Boston creeped-up on me my little typing fingers were itching! MUST…TYPE…SOMETHING! I missed writing.

I missed being able to analyze and look at where I had been through words. And therein lies my answer: I might stop writing. I might not travel for anyone, but myself (and my five friends), but I will always be a travel writer.

I can’t stop and I can’t take a vacation! Thank goodness for blogs!

Dover’s Castles and Cliffs oh my!

Entering Dover Castle

The quiet beep awoke me from my Channel daze.

“Welcome to France. You’re phone calls with now cost…..”

What? But I’m not in France. I’m still in England and yet my phone calls and texts have doubled in price?

Cell phones. The bane of my existence while I travel for a month to find ten trips for my Rock Fever column in The Royal Gazette, for under $100 from London. So far I’ve been to Stockholm and Sigtuna in Sweden; Sachsenhausen and Berlin in Germany; and Hampstead in London.

Now this little piece of technology had interrupted my sunny view of my sixth trip or the white cliffs of…. Dover! Perhaps I should not have been surprised that the French had invaded my phone. The neighbour is about 20 miles or so across the Dover Straight from this strategic southern tip of England. Check out my photos here.

Overlooking the Channel

A town, castle and cliff, Dover was little more than an hour train ride from the St. Pancreas train station in London. Do not, however, make the mistake of shelling-out for the fast trains. With a ticket salesperson’s slight of hand, what should have cost me only £15 pounds ended-up costing me close to £30! Even worse? On the fast trains I also had to switch vehicles outside of London. The slow trains, on the other hand, would have been more direct and less costly. In any case, I arrived around 1 p.m. A little late, but luckily the walk to the Castle from town is only about 15 minutes.

This British Border town has been critical for Britain’s safety for more than 2,000 years, which is why Henry II built the Castle in 1180. After he built the Keep, the Castle became known as “the key” because, of course, any enemy that took it would have full access to Britain.

I seized the Castle via the signs that led up the hill. Luck gave me a sunny day and a man in a ticket booth allowed me to enter for £11.80. For those who do not want to or cannot walk there are buses from town into the castle and inside there is a free land train. I crossed the moat with barely a stone thrown at me and was met with a view of the bustling docks below. Large ferries and cargo ships fill with cars and then expel cars in England’s main port to Europe.

I turned from the sights and set mine on the Secret War Tunnels. Henry II might have built the Castle on the hill in 1180 for strategy, but the Napoleonic Wars in the 18th Century demanded more. Tunneling began to hide troops fighting against the French. Then in the 1940’s the tunnels were resurrected as the command centre for Operation Dynamo i.e. Britain’s retreat from France when they could not immediately defeat the German army. In less than a week, Vice Admiral Bertram Ramsay, from his Dover cliff operation centre, had organized the removal of 340,000 men from Dunkirk, France. By 1942 the British War Cabinet realized these tunnels were bomb proof and started expanding to create an underground city of sorts.

Now these tunnels house a slightly Disney-ish tour of the barracks, hospital and officers’ quarters, complete with sound effects. No, I’m not kidding. As the tour wanders along the halls, voices of the war time effort echo above your head. Not as interesting or as informative as, I thought, the museum that is attached to the tunnels.

While the tunnels protected the military, the civilians were left within reach of the German guns based in Calais. The museum takes pains to explains the extent of bombing on Dover during WWII. Between July 1940 and September 1944, these poor souls were subjected to 2,226 shells landing in the town and 686 in nearby areas. More than 3,000 air raid alerts were sounded and more than 10,000 buildings were damaged. Two hundred and sixteen civilians were killed and 344 were severely injured. This British town was on the front lines. It only became safe in September 1944, after which the guns at Calais were captured by the advancing Allies and finally fell silent. It’s too bad this suffering was not better portrayed in the tour, but luckily it was free.

I left the sound effects and continued my assault on the hill and eventually landed in the Keep of Dover Castle.The entire Castle complex is 70 acres with the highest point containing a pharos, or lighthouse, that was originally built by the Romans to guide their ships across the Channel. Those Romans, always ahead. It’s little more than a circular stone tower standing next to a small stone church (St. Mary-in-Castro), but it is striking set within a beautiful green expanse. More interesting to me, however, was walking the former path of its light rays to see the Channel extending in front of me and the infamous white cliffs stretching to the left. No wonder the Romans built here.

Retreating to the Keep, which includes the Great Hall and two stone chapels, I was bombarded with another history lesson. “The 1216 Siege Experience” is a sound and light show that depicts the French attempt to seize the castle. By 1216 the French had, in fact, invaded southeast England, controlled London and the Tower. Dover held strong, rallied the troops and in 1617 ran the French out of town. Dover was “the key” after all.

The Keep now also contains a 12the Century, replica kitchen, a modern restaurant and a shop. I navigated the knighted plates and spoons trying to come home with me, saved my pounds and took the final batteries that looked across lush, green fields and white cliffs. It was time to head for the open air.

Dover Cliffs

If I could find the way. Other tourists jumped into their cars. I had no choice. I backtracked to the guard who let me in, who told me to head left. I have said this more than once, but thank goodness for the Brits and their signs.

A half hour of following these signs brought me to the National Trust-run cafe overlooking the famous cliffs that were painted white by fossilized marine life. These are transcribed with 4 km of paths that lead to the South Foreland Lighthouse.

At this point, however, I had been walking around the 70 acre castle, up the cliffs and I preferred to sit and watch the ferries meander through the channel. The sun was setting. It was getting cooler. The lighthouse would have to be reached another day.

“Your calls will cost…”

Ok. Ok. I get it. I’m going! It was time for the journey back to London and to my next trip for under $100. Forget the war time history. It’s time for some “cultural” inheritance of Britain at where else? Brighton of course.

Hampstead Heath is a London oasis

John Keats' House

“Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee!”

John Keats’ Ode To a Nightingale.

 

Chaos. That is the nicest way I can describe my attempt to leave Berlin. I had been there for three days and even cut my third day short to get to the airport. Bus – train – Bus I arrived at the bottom of an escalator, glanced up and saw a bundle of people waiting. What are they waiting for? I tried to negotiate around them. No luck. I would have to join them.

Why? To get into the airport! Yep. We had to scan all of our luggage before entering a second “line” to pass through a second security clearance. I use the word line loosely.

Moon over London at 1 a.m.

Hundreds of people circled the entrance. Pushing ensued. I tried to ignore while reading my book, but the man next to me seemed intent on starting a fight with the massive rugby-looking men in front of me.

Just get me back to London. Oh Easy Jet would. Easy Jet was delayed yet again by another two hours. This was becoming a trend.

A trend I was ready to buck as I arrived back in London at 1 a.m. and began my mission to find another excursion for under $100 from London for my Rock Fever Column in The Royal Gazette newspaper. I’m trying to find ten! So far? Stockholm, Sigtuna (both in Sweden), Sacchsenhausen and Berlin (both in Germany).

So after this Schonefeld Airport expenditure I needed something closer to London. Somewhere I had never been in London. Hampstead Heath. Check out my photos for more glimpses of green.

Perfect. This 800 acre Heath is in the heart of Hampstead about a 20 minute tube from central London. Not an airport in sight. Originally Hampstead was a village that eventually became swallowed-up by the giant London metropolis that attracted many writers, artists, architects, musicians and scientists. Some of these included John Keats, Robert Louis Stevenson, painter John Constable, D.H. Lawrence, Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud and John Le Carre. It seemed a no-brainer for the next stop.

Ahhhh! Green. It wasn’t quite a 20 minute Tube ride but it wasn’t bad. After negotiating the Northern Tube Line I followed the signs for my oasis from the chaotic of London. Immediately trees enveloped me and carried me along dirt paths that are better associated with the hiking trails of Patagonia. No wonder so many artists retreated to Hampstead Heath. I meandered until I found myself on the great expanse of Parliament Hill, the highest point on Hampstead Heath. Resting myself under a tree I could watch the silver building tops of the city while comfortably enjoying the sun, grass and fresh air.

Ahhhh, why don’t more Londoners enjoy this? I would be here every day! There is more than fields in the

Sitting in the Heath

Heath however. Jogging trails lead to ponds – one for males and one for females – kite flying and even mansions. I decided to find one of these mansions.

While Londoners seem to enjoy labeling every square metre of the city, the Heath was a jumble of dirt paths with only the path-end delineating where you are going. At the end of the fifth path I tried, I was suddenly struck by a picture from a scene from Victorian days. Kenwood House stretched above a wide green expanse. This home in the northwestern part of the Heath was built as a gentlemen’s home and is now filled with an art collection that includes Rembrandt’s self-portrait and Vermeer’s The Guitar Player. Even better?! Admission is free and during the summer (which I had apparently just missed) there are open-air concerts beside the house’s lake.

This was entirely too much country glamour for this island girl so I decided to explore away from the green expanse that is the Heath to wander through the actual village. A quaint and posh part of London, the hilly and red bricked homes and pubs of Hampstead provide a beautiful neighbourhood to enjoy a beer and watch life go by. I was part of that life going by as I tried to find Fenton House.

Up down and around, I eventually found this home built in 1693 and filled with the likes of Handel’s harpsichord. Or, well, at least a harpsichord from 1612 that he probably played. Unfortunately I wanted to kick myself. I had signed-up with the National Trust in Bermuda only the week before my trip. Of course I left my membership card in Bermuda so while the entrance would have been free it now cost £5.20. Oh well with my day so far only costing the £1.80 for the Tube, I think I could swing it. I was under $100!!! There was really only one other place in Hampstead I had to see.

Odd architecture at 2 Willow Road

Keats’ house. Of course along the way there was the odd place of 2 Willow Road. Why odd? Walk through Hampstead Village. It’s filled with homes from Jane Austen’s novels. But 2 Willow Road, this home of Hungarian architect Erno Goldfinger (yes his surname was Ian Fleming’s inspiration for one of his most famous novels) and his wife Ursala Blackwell, built in 1939 and filled with his furniture, books, modern art collection it is more modern art itself.

I had no desire to enter here so I meandered on further to find the beautiful and garden-entrenched home of John Keats. This timeless and simple home, which now nestles in the village, used to sit on the Heath! He lived here for only two years, but these were some of the most inspired years, writing his most popular poem Ode to a Nightingale here. It was also where he fell in love with Fanny Brawne his neighbour’s daughter. They were engaged, but he died of tuberculosis before they could marry. The home is quaint beyond words and amazing that one of the most famous writers of all time called it home with one of his friends Charles Brown.

Walking away from Keats’ homestead it was time to find some food. Good thing Hampstead is more than just beautifully bricked homes. With the Wells, a stylish gastropub  between the High Street and the Heath, I could find yummy food that still fit in the budget. Relaxed from my Berlin fiasco and a day of culture, green and high society it was time for me to head back to the centre of London.

And next week visit Robyn’s Wanderings Wednesdays to return to the battlefields. It’s back into the fray of WWII. To the cliffs of Dover it is!

Bring us your unhealthy!

 

Come one patient come all!

 

Where do we recruit patients? I mean don’t most health services only want you if you are sick? Am I wrong? I know there’s a lot of money in sick people (anyone read the papers lately). But recruiting?

I did a double-take. I was wandering through Dover (you know the town with white cliffs and a castle?) as I continue to find cheap trips from London. But this sign didn’t quite register at first.

NHS. National Health Service for those who live in England (and for those who don’t know what NHS is). We recruit for jobs. We recruit for businesses. Now NHS is recruiting for patients?

Or is it NHS’ patients are recruiting? Then we would have a problem with the apostrophe rather than the health services.

I can’t believe that is the case.

So NHS is looking for patients? Everywhere else in the world we’re trying to cut-down on patients. Everywhere else in the world the health systems are struggling to keep-up with the demand.

Apparently Dover wants you to come to them. They will take your sick. They will take your patients! So how do you sign-up? Unfortunately the office was closed (it was a Sunday) so I couldn’t ask.

But I could take a pic. I could share it with you. And I could find one place in the world that apparently being sick is something to be recruited for!