Eritrea’s amazing cableway

If you haven’t been to Eritrea then you’re not alone – but you are missing out.

The tiny Horn of Africa state hasn’t been a country for very long. It gained independence from Ethiopia, after a protracted insurgency, in 1991, cutting its former landlord off from the Red Sea in the process.

Where is Eritrea?

The few visitors who have ventured to this remote corner of Africa are tempted by tales of Asmara, the country’s enigmatic capital. The Italian occupation of Eritrea from 1890 to 1941 left behind a rich and astonishingly complete legacy of Modernist architecture. If you can’t get there Edward Denison’s Asmara: Africa’s Secret Modernist City is a wonderful compendium of the wonders that await. It’ll probably make you go, by the way. That’s no bad thing.

There’s more to Eritrea than this, including excellent diving and archaeological sites you can have all to yourself, but Asmara was what drew me here. After a day or so of strolling around laid-back streets, sipping macchiatos in old-school cafes on Harnet Avenue and joining Asmarinos on their nightly passegiata peregrination around the city I was ready to explore further. There was another reason:  I fell over in Cinema Impero while trying to make my way in pitch blackness to a seat. Two vintage Modernist seats gave way. It was time to leave town before I broke anything else.

I offered to pay for the breakages but they wouldn’t let me

There are two options for getting to the coast at Massawa, a bombed-out Zanzibar with a similarly timeless atmosphere. One is to club together with a load of railway enthusiasts and charter a train. The more usual one is to hop on a minibus which gets loaded with people, shopping and the odd goat for the seventy mile, 2000m descent to the coast.

It wasn’t always like this though. One other legacy of colonial rule was one of the most unusual forms of transport: the cable-car system known as the Teleferica Massaua-Asmara. This strange and very long system of cables, way-stations and goods carts was the fastest way to shift goods from the port to capital, and as you can see from this photo the odd passenger snuck on board.

The system was dismantled by British administrators of the area when the Italians w ere overwhelmed in 1941 but some traces do remain.

On the journey from Asmara to Massawa the road plunges through hairpin after hairpin, and if you can take your eyes off the road which is much easier going up than down you start to notice huge concrete blocks dotted along the route, These are the bases for the pylons that carried the cable way. Have a look at the Trainweb link at your leaisure. It is another rich source of information, reproducing a brochure produced at the time lauding the cableway, and gives you a good idea of how different the landscape would have looked with this audacious creation in operation.

This picture’s caption notes that it was taken, by John Brantley, while stationed in Eritrea at the Kagnew station in the 1940s. It’s a Wikimedia Commons image and I am indebted to him for posting it.

There have been, astonishingly, other cableways of similar long lengths. The COMILOG cableway ran between Gabon and the Republic of Congo for nearly fifty miles between 1959 and 1986. There’s fun to be had around the web finding out more.

You should visit Eritrea but you may not wish to rush. Power cuts and shortages marked my visit and those who have been more recently suggest that travel permits are widely required. It is a beautiful and friendly country but not without troubles. I didn’t do it for you by Michala Wrong is a vivid and readable history.

Cableways are cool and Eritrea is a unique place.

Northampton’s Eleanor Cross

The Taj Mahal is often celebrated as the world’s finest monument to love. Shah Jahan’s wife’s mausoleum is indeed impressive, but England’s Eleanor Crosses run it a close second.

Edward I with his sequel, Edward II

The story starts with Edward I, King of England from 1272 to 1307 and also known as Edward Longshanks on account of his great height. He was 6″2 , which may not be excessively tall to you and me, but to a 14th-century peasant who doesn’t believe in eating greens, walks with a hunch and towers over only Ronnie Corbett he’d have been an intimidating sight. With the weight of monarchy behind him he wouldn’t have had much trouble getting his bidding done. Among other things, he’s also known as the Hammer of the Scots and copped flack from Hollywood in Braveheart for his treatment of them.

Ed & El

Anyway, whatever the man’s faults he loved his wife, Eleanor of Castile, very, very much. This wasn’t a given in medieval marriages, and royal matrimonies were almost always strategic and political rather than romantic. If you liked your partner it was a bonus, and the truth was often very different. She died in November 1290 and Edward was grief-stricken.

Eleanor died near Lincoln, and her body moved in slow procession, returning for burial in London. Twenty miles a day would have been fast for a journey of this kind, and the Queen’s remains paused twelve times on its journey to Westminster Abbey. Each was originally marked with a wooden cross, later with a lavishly decorated stone cross. In London, there was one on Westcheap, today’s Cheapside. One formed the original Charing Cross. Only three survive: one at Geddington, near Corby; one at Waltham Cross – hence the name and one between them at Hardingstone, Northampton. I place this one last because I was lucky enough to pay it a visit this week.

The M1 is very, very familiar. My Dad once said he’d driven it so many times on away trips with Arsenal, family holidays and runs up to Sheffield and Leeds to drop off and pick up university-bound sons that he could do it with his eyes closed. The familiar landmarks and service stations haven’t changed much over the years. The Biling Aquadrome* sign remains baffling. What is an aquadrome anyway? On a trip to Leicester with some friends to see a band which never showed up we detoured off at Junction 15 bound for the Hardingstone Cross.

We wondered how many of the drivers roaring along the A508 and A45 understood the provenance of Queen Eleanor Interchange, the most visisble modern sign of the cross. The roundabout is busy enough to spook an entire royal entourage and as we dodged our way around it cars tooted and hooted. Rush hour traffic has no time for 820-year-old memorials. We, however, were bright-eyed as we neared the fringed of Delapre Park, on the site of the Abbey where Eleanor’s body rested all those years ago. And there it was, on a broadly sloping hill with views of Northampton beyond.

Though it was night, the Cross was well lit and you could clearly make up that it was missing its top section. The remainder was well-preserved and superbly lit on a cold December night. Someone’s proud of it, even if there are no signs to say what you’re looking at. The semi-detached houses opposite have quite a view. As it was dark the only picture I have is a bit ‘arty’, but there’s a daylight snap here.

Eleanor of Castile, Queen of England never had a curry house named after her though. Mumtaz Jahan has several so is some sort of proof of primacy.

*Don’t click the link if you want to remain ignorant about Biling Aquadrome. I reproduce it without looking. Actually knowing what it is and what it’s for would be no fun at all.

How to do travel writing

Beware, long post!

Before I post this I should make it very clear that I am not making any claims for myself to be a successful Travel Writer, nor would I describe myself as a Serious or Proper Journalist. Like I suspect most people who write about travel I do other things with my time too, and manage to make writing one part of making a living.

There are bad places to visit

Why I’m writing this, however, is in response to the very nice emails that I get sent now and again asking for tips on ‘breaking into travel writing’ or amorphous concepts like that. I’ve found myself giving the same suggestions time and again. Maybe some of you might come to this site looking for suggestions. Either way, I hope you’ll take these suggestions in the spirit they’re intended.

It’s been nearly twelve years since I got my first job in travel, and in that time I’ve noticed a few things that link together most people who make some sort of a living from travel writing. They tend to be very driven and enthusiastic individuals, as I’d imagine is anyone who manages to make money from something lots of others aspire to do. They go to the end of the road, work contacts and check, check and check again. When it comes to wanting to find something out, the guidebook writer to a country tends to know first and best – almost always far better than the tourist office or embassy of a country. If you don’t share this drive then I am sure you’ll find getting going hard going.

Next, they love the world and they love to travel. There’s nothing too hard about this and it’s what brings most people to the idea of travel writing. Note that there are two words in this phrase though – travel AND writing. If you’re doing the former, are you doing the latter? Are you keeping a blog which is an instant portfolio for your work? If not, then you’re missing out on a chance to show and tell anyone what you do – and how well you do it. It should have your contact details on it too. A lot of freelance work comes my way from people finding my blog and emailing me. Others have had TV and radio work and even book publishing deals come to them through this route.

Bueno photo, Diego

A small reality check. Very few people are full-time travel writers. I know how bad my attempt at being Bill Bryson or Paul Theroux would be. I’ve no idea how good yours would, but publishers aren’t exactly falling over themselves to publish travel lit right now. If you’re not a celebrity then it’s very hard to get someone interested in your bike ride from Bognor to Bhutan. Don’t lose heart though, you may be able to sell some pieces about this trip either while you’re away or when back.

What most people think of when they think of travel writing is going somewhere, writing an article about it and being paid for it. Then maybe doing another, and another, and then making a living from it. In fact, the majority of travel writers spend much of their time writing or updating guidebooks and writing about things other than just travel. I’ve done guidebook work but I’m not an expert. For that, think about following some of the top-notch travel writers you’ll find on Twitter like Paul Clammer or Nicola Williams, and have a read of the Travel Writing book I mention below. Leif Pettersen’s blog post on guidebook writing is an excellent read. There are details on writing for Lonely Planet here.

So what about selling an article? Impossible? No. Difficult? Of course! If not everybody would be doing it. Selling pieces is a tricky business, and people often ask about whether to submit a precis or a whole piece. I’d go for the former, though sometimes the latter is more appropriate.

Put yourself in the shoes of the Travel Editor at a national newspaper. They’ve got great jobs on one hand, but don’t be fooled into thinking they travel all the time. Often, they’re the most desk-bound people in the industry, working very long hours to get that week’s supplement out the door or, increasingly, stretching their working days to produce fast-changing online travel sections. One Travel Editor once told me that they received something like 30 unsolicited pitches and articles from people they didn’t know every day. Over a month that’s 900 pitches. Of these, they may take one. Or two. They also have an avalanche of email from travel firms trying to promote their holidays, flights and packages. The tough truth is that your 1500 word piece, sent in for consideration, may not even get looked at. Instead, then, send a snappy 75 word summary of the piece, stressing why it’s of the moment and why it’s right for the audience of the newspaper. It needn’t be about travelling to the ends of the earth.

Another Travel Editor I spoke to last year, at the height of the second coming of British holidays, lamented the dearth of inventive pitches on corners of England she’d love to have commissioned articles on: Lincolnshire, Shropshire, Essex and Notts.

So that’s quite a hurdle to jump. Ask yourself this though: is your pitch sharp and suited for the newspaper or magazine’s audience? Is it topical? Don’t overlook the latter. You might have a great idea for New Zealand, say, but it may be better to wait until the Rugby World Cup next year, when the country will be in the spotlight. Similarly, move fast. American travel pages have had plenty of London coverage off the back of the Royal Wedding. That could have been you if you’d have been quick. You might even get a reputation as someone who can write and deliver accurate and relevant copy at short notice.

Before I move on to more cheerful matters I should also add that your article, when published and beautiful will get you somewhere between £200 and £400. That may not cover your costs. But think about how wonderful it is to see your writing in print, talking about a memorable trip. This isn’t all about money.

Is your piece on track or hitting the buffers?

The good news is that there are more ways in than there used to be. I’ve already mentioned blogging as a way of building a portfolio. You’ll find like minded travel bloggers and tweeters organising meet-ups all over the place. These are good ways to meet people and make contacts. You’ll find plenty of sites who’ll publish your work if it’s good enough. They probably won’t pay but the networking benefits are there. Like lots of tough jobs to start doing you may find it helpful to do some things for people for free. Lost of people disagree with me about this and say you should never, if you want to be a Serious Writer, write for free. Such decisions are interesting and await you down the road.

If all else fails there

Other tips?

I’d also strongly recommend getting hold of a copy of Lonely Planet’s Travel Writing guide, written by Charlotte Hindle. It’s full of useful tips.

Get some formal journalism training so you can use shorthand and understand how to structure news and feature pieces. I’m being hypocritical here as I don’t have this. I wish I had.

Take pictures too. This is especially valuable if you go somewhere interesting. I’ve lost commissions due to a lack of decent photos. Durr.

Always note you are writing for an audience rather than yourself, and know who this audience is. It’s not you. You should sit quietly in the background as the place and the people you meet come to the fore. The exception is when you do something stupid. Then you can push yourself out there as the hapless clown. Everyone like a good travel disaster story.

Lastly, and most importantly, I would urge you to commit to being excellent. I’m surprised at the number of people who send in pieces without having read and re-read them and polished the prose until it shines. Read it out loud. Ask someone else to read it. It’s your work, be proud of it.

Online Travel Journalist of the Year

Funnily enough I was awarded Online Travel Journalist of the Year at last night’s Travel Press Awards.


This is me getting a nice big paperweight from Francine Sheridan, LAX Los Angeles World Airports.

It was quite noisy so I couldn’t hear what they said, but the judges (thanks judges) liked my work with the Guardian, especially a special live Q&A for travellers stranded by the eruption of the Ejyafjallajökull volcano, as well as blog posts and use of social media.

The event was at Paramount at the top of Centre Point, one of London’s most iconic buildings. The views of London at night, especially St Paul’s and the City, were magnificent.

By the way, if you’re not in the US, you may have missed my recent appearance on Entertainment Tonight, talking about my specialist subject, the upcoming Royal Wedding.

Brompton World Championships

Brompton bikes are – sorry Boris – the commuter’s friend. In fifteen seconds – ten if you’re quick – you can be off down your chosen road, quick as a whippet. When correctly liveried in jet black they’re the heir apparent to London’s black cabs. Best of all, they’re astonishing fun to ride and almost

All that said, Sleek racing machines they are not. Try riding one downhill. London, having largely a flat centre, rarely exposes the high-speed flaw of a Brompton. Without the big gears of a road bike, a descent renders the rider into a fine approximation of road runner, all whirring legs and benign expression.

The annual World Brompton Championships is slightly different to the full-scale component. Firstly, the race is a free-for-all. Anyone can enter provided they have the requisite folding bike. The race takes place over two laps of a winding, undulating course through the grounds of Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire, adjacent to the town of Woodstock. And anyone entering must be dressed in, what else, a jacket and tie.

Having bored many of my friends into submission about the wonders of Brompton entering felt like a natural step. Plus the Evenlode, an interesting and previously unexplored tributary of the Thames, flows close by. It may have been early October but the prospect of a dip in a river and a dash on the Brompton was too good to resist.

So it was that I found myself standing in pouring rain next to four Belgian dressed in dicky-bows with plastic ducks dangling from their helmets. Muddy pools of water were forming around the brown and cream brogues I had on to compliment the 1940s pinstripe suit I was wearing. At the sound of the horn the 99 other riders in my pen and I hopped over the rope and ran over, Le Mans style, to where our Brompton’s sat in geometric order. I had to push and shove to get to mine, and promptly forgot how to assemble the bike. I swore a bit and fiddled and eventually got going, onto the road and into a howling gale.

The next thirty minutes were some of the most enjoyable cycling I can remember having. OK, so I overtook plenty of people, especially on the second lap, and that’s always fun. But the buzz is slightly lessened by whizzing past someone on a purple Brompton, dressed as a purple princess complete with purple wand. The real joy was the sense of English silliness of riding a small-wheeled wonder in the rain, on a twisting course through the estate of a country pile. In a suit. In the pouring rain.

And then it’s all over too quickly. My time of 30 minutes won’t rip up any trees, but it felt very swift on a bike with wheels only slightly larger than a seven-inch single. I wonder if they’ll let me ride the hundred-mile sportive in my brogues next year?

An Oxfordshire village

Warborough, just down the road from Dorchester in Oxfordshire, is not really on the way to anywhere. It’s not in the Cotswolds, nor is it located by the steadily-widening Thames which rolls by at Standlake. It’s not even on one of the sweet tributaries to Old Father Thames, like the Evenlode Or the Windrush, which meander through the county offering wild swimmers the promise of a dip in idyllic – if possibly not deep enough – fresh river water.

Maybe that’s why it’s managed to escape anyone’s attention this long. For this is a perfect English village, dating back millennia, A small slice of Eden hiding in the bullrushes away from the modern world.

To describe the place is to make bricks and mortar Ray Davies’ Vision of England immortalised and satirized in the 1969 classic The Village Green Preservation Society, and to offer a case study for WG Hoskins’ History of the English Landscape. I’m no local historian, by the way, so apologies if my observations are inaccurate in any way. I was distracted, you see.

Let’s start with the village green, Warborough’s open heart and gateway to fields and, beyond, the Thames valley and Vale of the White Horse. on the way here you might pass the picture postcard pub and what looks like a tithe barn. Replace goalposts and swings with strip-mined fields and pasture and you could have stepped back centuries. there’s nought more modern in the churchyard, where a Norman/early Gothic tower looms over a typically higgle-piggle house of worship. the Parish church has seen off the Wesleyan Chapel nearby, a reminder of a great revolution in faith from the nineteenth century that seems scarcely conceivable now.

Pub, fields, barn, green. Add ancient houses and no tourists whatsoever and you have a well-kept secret that makes for a lovely detour if you’re south of Oxford with time to tarry.

Everton away

Old turnstiles gathering dust, Bullens Stand

Rush preventative turnstile

Pitchside punning

 

Happy travellers

Foxtrot Echo Lima Tango

Breathing the lonely word

Regular readers might know of my enthusiasm for Felt, one of the great lost bands. They’re a little less lost right now, thanks to Cherry Red’s reissue series and name-checking by the likes of Belle and Sebastian.

Another landmark in frontman Lawrence’s road to redemption and the legend status he always knew would come one day is the publication of Foxtrot Echo Lima Tango, a fanzine devoted to the band. The first edition sold out quickly, but a fresh print run has just become available. It is limited in numbers but is £10 very well spent.

Lawrence: (sur)name dropper

Fanzines were the predecessors of websites devoted to bands. Hacked together with little more than scissors, glue, a (possibly illegally) commandeered photocopier and bags of enthusiasm. I loved music and football zines, especially for their DIY can-do approach. Smiths Indeed typified them.

Foxtrot Echo Lima Tango is something else though. It’s as beautifully written and thoughtfully packaged as Felt’s albums, and as close to a miscellany about this most mysterious of bands as you’ll find. Reading it makes Felt’s place among bands like the Jesus and Mary Chain, the Smiths and Cocteau Twins in the canon of 80s guitar music much clearer, and you’re sure to laugh, frown and read open-mouthed about the band’s near-misses with fame.

So big up Christian and Mike for shining a little more light on Felt. Read and listen on.

The back door to the Lakes

Distant Wasdale

The best way to reach the lakes? The snaking, traffic-trodden M6? Crammed up against a beer-bellied chap with a large bag on a west coast mainline train to Oxenholme or Penrith, then begging a lift? How about none of the above?

Lost in the world of modern railways is the Cumbria Coast Line, a two-coach throwback to another era, complete with request stops, signal-box attendants who double as gate-keepers for level crossings and an abundance of wonderful scenery. You’re probably not surprised by the looming, brooding fells – though Cumbrians are a no-nonsense bunch and you won’t see poets scribbling lines in awe of the hills on board – but the delicate wetlands, estuaries and tidal flats of the coast are less celebrated. Yet this is a journey to savour.

In fact, the Cumbria Coast line may save you time too. The south-western fells around Wasdale are notoriously time-consuming to get to from the motorway. If Langdale and Borrowdale are an hour from the big roads, Wasdale can be close to double that. Ravenglass, Drigg and Seascale are all ten miles or so from the western tip of Wasdale, and can be reached from London, with kind connections, in four and a half hours.

The lakes unfold slowly and deliberately. Just north of Lancaster station, where you’ll leave the main line unless bound to do so at Preston by a service running fewer options, you’ll get your first view if the mountains glowering at Morecambe Bay. Though this is the best known of the tidal flats n the Lancashire and Cumbria coasts it is by no means the only one. Carnforth, famous as the setting for Brief Encounter, is next, with rusting boilers from steam engines sitting alongside mighty diesels at Steamtown, an open-air museum dedicated to locos from the past. At Barrow-in-Furness, where the Royal Navy’s submarines are built you change from the zippy sprinters services to the Cumbria  Coast line proper.

There’s more for rail-buffs of all ages at Ravenglass, close to my one journeys end. Here L’al Ratty, a narrow-gauge railway, climbs up to eskdale on a very scenic journey. Muncaster Castle next door offers tamer appeal, with gardens alive with colour year round.

drigg.jpg

Request a stop at Drigg and have the station to yourself

The route crosses some of England’s most isolated spots, hiding amidst the folds of assorted Lakeland river estuaries, the North Sea and the cloud-covered Fells. The sun is intermittently blinding with the kind of fresh, sharp light that rain and breeze puts into sharpest focus.  Who needs to travel this beautiful stretch of the Cumbrian coast on a Thursday afternoon, bound for Ravenglass, Seascale and Carlisle? No-one except me it seems. So I have the train to myself until I get off at Drigg, a request stop. Requesting it seemed to surprise the Guard, whose tone of replying ‘really?’ to my request lends me to think that either no-one ever does or that it’s really not my kind of town. To my right, the bracken is a bright orangey-brown on steep, hummocky hills.

eskdale.jpg

Burnmoor Tarn, reached via the Old Corpse Road from Wasdale

The highlights of this journey are many. On the first leg to Barrow in Furness, the crossings of the Kent and Leven viaducts are astonishing, ever-changing vistas. Water and mountains are everywhere yet the train appears suspended, almost floating above it all. It looks more like the north-west of Scotland than the Lakes. A golf course with links on rocky promontories looms into view, then quickly passes. Wading birds find safe havens in the oxbows and inlets, the seagrass and sands out the window.

olivers-gill.jpg

Oliver’s Gill: good scrambling

As I get off at Drigg, I wait while the train pulls away bound for distant Sellafield, Whitehaven and Carlisle. There’s much more to explore on the coast, but I’m headed inland via a wonderful road where the mountains reveal themselves through folds of foothills. And then there it is: Wastwater. Not the biggest, not the most spectacular of the lakes but for me, the one that takes the prize as the biggest classic. As I slowly cycle its length to journeys end, the calm of England’s greatest landscape is already working its magic. If I were to stay forever would anyone mind?

Wasdale sunset

Spotted on the Regents Canal East London Line crossing

This probably counts as slow graffiti. I wonder what daring type managed to do this, dangling over the shallow water of the Regent’s Canal while on the lookout for trains?