Walking the streets of Oslo

Yesterday we walked the streets of Oslo, trying like the 150,000 people with us to make sense of the incomprehensible. A national tragedy brought about by one man living in a parallel universe, where children, a nation's future and any parent's most precious gift, have to be cut down to prevent multiculturalism and tolerance spreading through society. Where the buildings of a government he considered corrupted must be smashed to smithereens.

Yesterday, the Norwegian people pulled themselves up out of an almost overwhelming sense of shock, horror and deep grief to stand together and show solidarity for the values that these people died for: openness, tolerance and democracy. People of all colours, ethnic backgrounds and ages gathered together, not only in Oslo, but all over the country to walk in protest carrying flowers and torches, to show their belief in these values. These spontaneous gatherings and marches were not organised by the authorities, but by private people disgusted by the horrific massacre on 22nd of July in Oslo and Utøya. Like the silent resistence during the Second World War when the Norwegian people wore paperclips in their jacket lapels, they showed very clearly yesterday that "we will overcome".

Kjærligheten faller aldri bort - hvil i fred!

Yorkshire adventures with a wheelchair

It's actually an interesting experience pushing someone in a wheelchair, though the person being pushed may not necessarily agree! People fall over themselves to help you; to get out of your way, hold open doors, clear toilets, set up portable ramps and even move whole steam trains to enable you to get where you're going. We are showered with smiles and kind words, children in pushchairs wave to us, people really just couldn't be kinder. Is it just that I look cute and helpless pushing the chair, or is it my charming mobility-challenged passenger who apologizes to everyone for the inconvenience we are causing? Maybe it's the harassed look on the face of the elderly lady trotting behind us. The only disappointment is that no tall dark handsome stranger has offered to whisk me away from it all!

Staying at Raven Hall is like being an extra in an Agatha Christie film. Various Miss Marple candidates sit knitting in corners, and all the usual suspects are there; the retired colonel and his mousy wife, the blonde bombshell with the dodgy-looking husband, a red-faced chap with a shifty look and a large moustache, various strange old gentlemen with walking aids and a couple of earnest-looking foreign girls on a hiking holiday. Ok, maybe I'm letting my imagination run riot. It's actually mostly full of older
couples, grandparents with grandchildren, a family of Swedes and some guys walking for charity, but this place is just perfect for a murder or two!

The hotel stands alone on the cliffs looking across the sea towards Robin Hood's Bay, with the North York moors forming a rugged backdrop to the scene. On the rocks below seals bask in the sunshine, waiting for the tide to come in again. There's a definite feeling of faded grandeur here, combined with solid Yorkshire standards of comfort. With good food, lovely gardens and deep comfy chairs to laze around in, who needs a spa centre and a bit more nightlife than a cup of cocoa in the bar before turning in?
The Cleveland Way runs along the coast right past the hotel providing me with spectacular walking opportunities during my time off duty. I've walked the coastal path to Robin Hood's Bay, a lovely old village nestling in a cleft of the bay. It's only a few miles walk, but involves a certain amount of climbing up and down from the cliffs to sea-level and back again to get the pulse going. The views are stunning along the clifftops and the wind from the sea blows all the cobwebs away. Along the way I passed the remains of an old alum works, which provided alum for fixing dyes in the textile industry for over two hundred years. Apparently, this area had a good supply of the necessary compound aluminium sulphate and also plenty of seaweed and human urine. Probably not a great place for a holiday in the seventeenth century, unless you'd lost your sense of smell!

We drove to Goathland on the North York moors, the village known as Aidensfield in the tv series "Heartbeat", to catch the steam train to Pickering. The station is charmingly old-fashioned, with quaint buildings, picket fences and flowers everywhere. Getting onto the train, however, turned into quite a performance as we had to get the wheelchair across the track to the opposite platform. The train arrived earlier than anticipated and stopped right on the level crossing we were going to use. However, the railway staff soon sorted it; the train was moved on a few meters, we were guided across the track like VIPs, a ramp was produced and we pushed our precious cargo into the goods van! Typically, the whole process was witnessed by a couple of acquaintances from back home, whom we had unfortunately bumped into on the platform.

The journey to Pickering was very relaxing, chugging along at a stately pace through the countryside. After a good pub lunch and a trundle up and down the hills in Pickering, we managed the trip back to Goathland far more elegantly.
The hotel lies between Whitby and Scarborough, both popular holiday towns. Whitby is pretty enough from a distance, with its houses and shops clustered picturesquely around the estuary of the river Esk. However, the shops are unashamedly full of tatt which detracts considerably from the charm of the place. Cobbled streets winding up the hillside might be quaint, but they are not exactly wheelchair-friendly. So after a pit stop at the Co-op we drove up to look at the statue of Captain James Cook on the headland opposite the abbey. Having been to places like Cape Tribulation and the Whitsunday Islands that he discovered and named, it was interesting to see where he started out from. The ruined Benedictine abbey broods over the town beside the Norman church of St Mary. There was a monastery there from Anglo-Saxon times, replaced with bigger and better models through the ages until Henry VIII needed more cash. There's plenty of atmosphere here and in the churchyard, but I'm saving a date with Count Dracula for another night.

We ambled along the sea front on Scarborough's north bay in the sun today, and then sat on a bench to watch the surfers. Very pleasant! On Saturday we're going to the Stephen Joseph theatre to see Dear Uncle before returning home. It's an Alan Ayckbourne revamp of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya and has good reviews.

It's been a good week here, but North Yorkshire gets low marks for its disabled toilets. I've had a lot of interesting toilet-related experiences....however, my lips are sealed!

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Chillin' out in Essaouira

As it turned out our journey southwards down the coast to Essaouira was fraught with difficulties. Having missed the bus in Casablanca, we ended up getting one to Safi, an industrial town 2 hours north of our goal. The plan being to spend the night there and get a bus the rest of the way the following morning.

However, after a night in a room without air-conditioning, with mosquitos and a husband being violently sick, we had to move on to plan C. Having changed our tickets, this time for the evening bus, and visited the pharmacy, the aim was to get the man well enough to travel. The guide-book says there isn't much to see in Safi and what there was I certainly never saw! An attempt to walk alone down to the harbour area to kill some time while Kevin rested, had to be abandoned after a creepy guy on a moped started dogging my footsteps - despite the fact I was dressed in trousers and had on a cardigan! So we whiled away the hours in a darkened sitting room, and with a couple of short excursions to a local cafe with air-conditioning to give the local men something to talk about.

With a combination of medication and acupuncture, Kevin managed the journey to Essaouira, but spent the next day in bed, and though recovering slowly is still a very cheap dinner-date!

Essaouira is a small town on the Atlantic coast with a very laid-back atmosphere. The windy city has a pleasant climate, relatively cool in the summer due to the trade winds making it a popular place for surfers among others. Historically, it was an important trading post used by Europeans and Arabs alike - a link between Europe and Timbuktu. A French architect, Theodore Cornut, was employed by the reigning sultan to design a city there in the eighteenth century, which is why the town resembles St. Malo (which he also designed). Essaouira's more recent claims to fame are as a place where hippies such as Jimi Hendrix liked to hang, and you still get offered "space cookies" on the beach! Orson Welles filmed Othello here, and the town also provided the inspiration for Thorbjørn Egner's Kardemommeby.

We've been staying in the lovely Ryad Wathier, owned by Frenchman Jean Gabriel. A beautiful airy four-storey house, where breakfast is served on the roof terrace from which you can glimpse the sea. We were intrigued to recognize Aboriginal paintings among the works of art in our room and elsewhere around the house. The man is a real collector and has among other things sailed all over the world and spent time in Australia. A genuinely nice and interesting guy who made us feel very welcome and even invited me to eat with the family while Kevin was ill.

Essaouira's famed winds have not been so apparent during our stay, which made the beach a very pleasant place to relax and while away the hours. It's fascinating just watching everything that's going on; Moroccan families and tourists enjoying the sun, sand and ocean, hawkers of sunglasses and watches (RayBan and Rolex, no less!) and the inevitable cookie sellers.

Yesterday I treated myself to a visit to a Hammam (bath-house or spa) - an otherworldly experience! You go down some steps, strip off and enter a dimly-lit, warm steamy cellar with a few mats on the floor. At one end are troughs where the ladies fill buckets of water (hot and cold). First I was swilled down, then black olive soap was applied. Once that had soaked in well, I was scrubbed from head to toe and then caked in a body mask. While I lay there letting it do its work, they went to work on another couple of women. Afterwards I was swilled down again, my hair washed and then was massaged all over with argan oil. The whole process took an hour and a half. Though at times pure torture (particularly when my sunburn was scrubbed), it left me with skin that feels 20 years younger!

Well, that was the last stop on the road. Now it's back to Marrakech and a sweltering 47 degrees (according to the thermometer!), and then home again to fifteen degrees and rain! Ah well, always good to get home again.....until the next trip

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From a woman's point of view

Some observations on life as a woman in Morocco; just my impressions as a foreign woman formed over the last couple of weeks as we have travelled around the country, not a generalization about the role of women in Islamic society as a whole.
Pretty much all the Moroccans we have had dealings with during our time here, have been friendly, courteous and eager to make contact and help us in a way they can...though sometimes with varying results. They also seem to be a relaxed and modest kind of people. But the vast majority of the people you meet as tourist are men. One can't help feeling that one has entered a man's world coming to Morocco.

It's not that you don't see any women here, its just that they play such a small part in the public arena. The ordinary cafes are only full of men with the very odd exception, the hotel accomodation is pretty much run by men, most of the salespeople in shops and stall-holders are men. I was even shown into the changing-room in Zara in Marrakech by a very helpful man! And Moroccan women definitely don't go walking in the mountains, so the only women we saw there were other foreigners. It appears that to a large extent the woman's place is still very much in the home.

Modesty is the key word when it comes to dress code. Many Moroccans (both men and women) wear some form of the jellaba, an ankle length robe with a pointy hood. They come in all colours of the rainbow, from very simple plain white cotton or black to brightly coloured patterned jellabas in slinky silk materials. A large majority of women also wear some form of hijab, head covering, often in exotic colours or sparkly material to match their slippers/shoes. Only a tiny minority actually cover their faces. Some young women wear western style dress, and may for example wear a fashionable strappy top or tunic over a long-sleeved top. A few even wear short-sleeved tops, but I can count on one hand the number of women I've seen showing bare legs, even just a little bit of flesh. They keep their bodies covered even on the beach. In Casablanca we saw young women sitting or paddling in the sea fully clothed while their male friends and relations swam and frolic in the waves.

The thing is that the vast majority don't look unhappy with their lot, and though things are changing, particularly for women in wealthier families it will take time before rural areas catch up. It was quite normal for girls in rural areas such as the Atlas mountains to only complete primary education until relatively recently, but up and coming generations won't accept that.

As a westernized woman you inevitably attract attention, particularly if you get a bit off the beaten tourist track. You can't help but feel uncomfortable being the only woman in a cafe or having looks directed at your bare calves (despite wearing more clothes than normal in hot weather). It means that you end up going into places where there are other tourists. Walking around on your own in places where there aren't other tourists can also excite unpleasant attention as I discovered, rather a limiting factor. However, it makes one very aware of the freedoms one otherwise takes very for granted.

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