Category: 2018 or earlier

Jogja breeze 10th October 2008

After nearly two months of wrestling with the ideas and non ideas of business possibilities in Malaysia. I took a break.

Jogja. Indonesia. On the map you would probably have to look for Jogjakarta, Java, Indonesia. I had booked an economical Air Asia return flight from Kuala Lumpur to Jogja departing on Wed 8th October 2008. I’d two objectives in mind. To discover a little more of Indonesia and test the property investment water. However I wouldn’t seriously attend to the second unless I found the first exciting and invigorating. How long does it take to understand how one feels about a region or location? The feelings unfold as one discovers more about surroundings and the people. I have mixed feelings about the surroundings. The centre of Jogja are pretty typical of most Asian city centres. Busy, hot and someone at every turn wanting to take some dosh from you for something or other. I fell on my feet with an internet hotel booking at a ’boutique’ hotel well out of the city centre to the north in a region that is called Palagan. It’s got a wicked bed and aircon that have promoted such glorious slumber that I am now reluctant to move on. The operation boasts a mix of Balinese styling and Javanese hospitality which were the only things that I really knew about it when I was making the internet booking. Both promote that smug, comfortable feeling and the fact that most of the furniture, apart from the bed, is creaking and wincing after less than a year of use just serves to remind me that looks aren’t everything (ladies take note)! I’ve walked the hastily and sometimes rather too economically metalled roads around this little suburb of Jogja during the heat of the past two days and met happy souls everywhere. I’ve discovered a restaurant that tempts one easily into a 160, 000 rupiah dinner that can be very seafood oriented or backed off a little from the seafood with a options of chicken or duck. I hit the ten pound mark, yes my UK friends 160, 000 rupiah sounds like a fortune doesn’t it…well I think it is for the locals!!, with a 1st class mix of Ikan Bakar (bbq fish) and Crispy Duck plus a little of my favorite veggy – kangkong in belachan. Mmmm, I agree, an odd combination but I am not an avid seafood consumer and I started the order with the Crispy Duck but felt that I had to at least tickle the seafood thing, especially as the joyous little place deemed to call itself Restaurant Jimbaran, one of the more famous Bali regions for taking good quality seafood. That was on my first evening here. An evening of torrential rain, lightning and a lengthy power outage to the whole of the suburb. The friendly Javanese thing displayed itself like a proud national flag that night. It was no issue to borrow a brolly at the Jimbaran establishment. In the black night and the torrential rain I wandered away from the restaurant in what I thought was the approximate direction of my ’boutique’ accomodation. I do have to admit that I felt a lot of eyes on me as I departed the restaurant. Eyes full of surprise and wonder tempered with that ‘yep, he’s odd, well he is European’ sort of acceptance. I got it roughly right. About thirty yards down the only turn that I needed to make from the restaurant exit road there was a budding warung operation surviving under a few timber poles, canvas and candlelight. I stopped and vocalised my accomodation’s name at a human looking outline behind the candle. I saw his arm go round in the direction I was heading and I responded with a Melayu thankyou which brought a grunt of acknowledgement. Another five minutes of trudging down the road brought nothing but a sound of running behind me. I’d aquiesced to a probable mugging and had already started to curse myself for being such a mug. I turned round as the footfalls were upon me to discover that it was the warung outline himself this time waving his arm in the opposite direction. Bless him! I’d walked past my boutique 4 minutes back and he’d run all the way down the road in the rain to haul me back. I held the umbrella over him as we started back and I offered more thanks. The umbrella thing seemed so pointless on reflection as he was already drenched and now I was getting drenched too.
I do like the people and although the city does nothing much for me yet I like this suburb thing with it’s friendly villagy feel and the farmlike activities that thrive behind the economically metalled routes and the sometimes not so twee roadside abodes.

23rd May to 12th Aug 08

Haaaappppy! UK p l e a s u r e amongst honorable friends and deep, loving family.

Two trips to London to visit Paul and T taking in, on the first excursion, memorable visits to the Orange Tree, Alexander Palace (Ice Rink), and a Polish oriented Fish and Chip diner at the Southern end of Finchley High Street for healthy portions of both that the skaters deserved much more than the spectators! And, on the second excursion, leisurely visits to a High Street pub, Tesco’s and The Flat for a post beer, home grown, sleep inducing curry.

A visit to Portsmouth over a wet, windy and then sunny weekend for special time with Rachel

A Rach and Stu chaperoned introduction to the Wii Fit at a unique dinner evening presented by Mark and Hanna at their house in the Old Town.

Four meetings with Solicitors and FA’s between Drakes Way and The Holiday Inn

A Stroud exploration day kicked off with a visit to the Noahs Ark ‘avant garde’ bike shop, thereafter taking in such Stroud hotspots as the Greyhound and Subway topped off with a walk over Birdlip Hill all in the effervescent company of Rach and Stu

Numerous bike ride Monday evenings scouring the remainder of pub life in and around Swindon under the amicable guidance of Dave P

Salad starter? You bet! Mother Son and Daughter in cascade just leave enough room for a maincourse and still manage to squeeze in a sweet on a wet Saturday night at the Grove

A family day at Lydiard on what must have been the most glorious day during my whole stay there.. good food, good fun, family and sun.

A barbeque evening, followed by a thumping rugby morning at a little cottage near Cirencester courtesy of the Good Family.

Two further evenings of walk talk and beer with one half of the Good family including on one occaision, former employer staff of the newer generation.

One of those evenings was followed with an impromptu trip to Portsmouth for lunchtime beer, fish and chips in the C air.

A value beer night out culminating in dinner at The Rendezvous courtesy of a former employer with Richard P

Fun hours aided and abetted by the patient and resourceful Mr John Lane rebuilding the software on my computer after the hard disk failed

A barbeque evening in the garden of Eastern with our woollens, wine, a happy daughter and her man

A duck watching, wine drinking and pizza consuming evening at the abode of the ever friendly couple, Claire and Nathan

Numerous squash games with Stu, Mark and Richard B marked indelibly by my improving game and disapproving knee(s)

A memorable evening visit to Mr Bull’s residence, complemented sumptuously by a quality dinner at the nearby Butchers Arms at Sheepscombe, with a relaxed, harmonious and frequently humorous following day at a country auction and a shop tour of Cheltenham that took in a future toy shop!

Gardening, comprising principally of lawn care in Beckhampton and Eastern Gardens

Bicycle rides to Coate and beyond in relatively successful attempts to satisfy an inner desire for Mountain Bike exposure with Stu

A pleasurable re connection with Ian ‘Bud’ Badham exploring lap top capabilites and pub dimensions

Meals, wine evenings, walks into town and life, washing machine and slow cooker discussions with my dear Mother

A simply idyllic visit to the picturesque county of Suffolk and it’s seaside towns at the hands of the inimitable Richard B and his dear wife Vicky with Ellouise and Charles representing the new generation

A country bus ride to Bath to take in Sarah’s perception of the city and cast a discerning eye over her posh shared abode..cooo!

Three visits to Molly who redefines the term mentally agile!

Numerous brolly donning jaunts to local establishments such as Rudi’s, The Grove and The Merlin to make liquid quality comparisons at the bequest of an endlessly energetic daughter

A musically fluid evening courtesy of the Vic and a band that ‘covered’ the 70’s and 80’s the star of which had to be the drummer who beat a rythm around the whole room on everything from beer pumps to spirit bottles..Stu decides to take guitar lessons..did you Stu?

A birthday carvery Sunday lunch… Smiley photos, beer and Yorkshire puddings hit the right spots

Chippenham travellers arriving casually at the weekends to do ‘tea’ with, on one occaision a joyous neice bearing news of forthcoming marine travel

A final evening of beer and curry enjoyed by a family oriented trio who have no reluctance in eating and drinking for pleasure!

The week prior to Christmas of 2004 was spent in the Philippines. My friend had arrived to meet me in Malaysia and we had taken a MAS flight to Manila. After a couple of nights in the BnB (bums n boobs) spangled evening spots of Manila we ventured to Bohol via a flight to Cebu and a ferry ride to Bohol Island itself. Panglau was our ultimate destination. Peters House was the target accomodation at the Aloha Beach location. The holiday was already a glittering trail of new experiences for my friend who had never before visited the Philippines. My expectations based on numerous trips into and around the Philippine islands were being fulfilled and it was a week of toothy grins and happy experiences for me. Unfortunately accomodation at Peters House was unavailable but we were able to secure comfortable accomodation at a friendly guest house toward the west end of the beach. Diving was our primary pastime followed closely by eating, drinking, relaxing and laughing at anything from each other to the (other) odd characters dotted around the beach resorts. Peters House incorporated it’s own dive centre which provided us with our dive connection and an amiable dive schedule. My friend had set himself the objective of attaining his open water dive certification which he comfortably acheived at the expense of a few drinking evenings in an attempt to remain fresh and alert for both physical and academic tests the following mornings.

With his certification secured and gratefully received we left Bohol for Manila and a return flight to Malaysia on Christmas eve 2004.

We reflected on an enjoyable and successful week whilst supping ‘one or two’ beers at a watering hole not more than a monkeys leap from the twin towers of KL. Christmas eve dissolved into Christmas Day. Overnight would be in the Concorde Hotel, the infamous guardian of KL’s Hard Rock cafe, just a few minutes walk from our chosen Christmas eve watering hole. Our Christmas day 2004 was spent on the move. An early morning departure from the Concorde Hotel heralded a return to KLIA for a ninety minute flight to Phuket in Thailand. I had prebooked a beachside chalet at a resort in the peaceful vicinity of Kao Lag a couple of hours drive north from Phuket airport. True to the brochure promise and the booking we had made, resort transport collected us from Phuket airport in a timely manner and we arrived in Kao Lag during early afternoon.

After a simple registration process we were taken to one of a number of stylish wooden built chalets that sat at the edge of gardens and looked out across a clean tidy yellow sand beach. The dwelling was raised from the ground by eight foot high stilt like supports presumably designed to dispel the writhing wildlife that inconspicuously inhabited the gardens. We were so overwhelmed by the chic style of the accomodation that we failed to register the one undesirable aspect of what was to be our shared home for the coming week. Sleeping facilities in the one bedroom that the chalet offered was simply not going to suit us. It was good for two people. Two people who were inclined toward nights of close proximity and although I enjoyed my friends company I had no intentions of sleeping in the same bed as him! As this particular aspect of the accomodation signalled its dark meaning to our apparently parallel consciences our heads shook in a synchronized dispelling dance. The bedside telephone was wound into service and I explained the predicament we were confronted with. After a couple of minutes on hold (whilst, I suspect, the staff at reception chuckled and joked about the two, now confirmed straight, English guys that had been appointed a chalet with a Queen bed) we were told to wait there. The bell boy returned endowed with a surreptitious but acknowledging smile. He was jangling another set of keys and we were led to a chalet in the second row from the beach that was equally chic and endlessly more suitable with two single beds in place of the Queen. Deal. Second row didn’t matter. Single beds did.

The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the immediate vicinity of the chalets and the beach. We chatted to a young Scandinavian chap whose task that afternoon was to man the ‘Dive With Us’ desk parked neatly off to the garden side of the path that wound its way between garden and beach. We were left in no doubt about the options for diving over the coming days. The short chat wetted our dive appetite and bouyed our excited anticipation of dive adventures for the coming days. It paved the way nicely for a late afternoon beer which was followed by shaves and showers in preparation for a Christmas day dinner at the resort restaurant.

Sleep, in the single bed, arrived before 11pm, as welcome as the beers had arrived in the late afternoon. Little did we know how the Good Lord had planned to ‘up the ante’ in the coming days.

Rested and looking forward to breakfast we departed the chalet on Boxing day morning at around 8am. A leisurely breakfast that typically saw me eating much more than I was saying was concluded by about 9am. My friend announced that he would walk back toward the chalet via the beach. I needed to head straight back to the chalet to attend to personal matters of an expulsive nature!

Inside the chalet, my first perception of the horrors to come was an audible, increasingly loud, invasion of the gentle harmony of gardens, beach and the faint washing of the breaking waves on the peaceful shore. It sounded like a plane coming into land. I stepped toward the balcony window of the chalet and, incredibly, witnessed a whitish grey wall of water charging through the gardens toward mine and other chalets. I recall having the thought that a reservoir must have burst, and a follow up thought that I hadn’t remembered seeing any sign or indication of a nearby reservoir, how odd. I recall having my palm top in my hand. I was looking up a word in its dictionary tool. I began to process the audio and visual inputs of the last twenty seconds and concluded that I would be better off out of the chalet than in it when the water arrived, which it was definitely going to do, very soon. I put the palm top into my shorts pocket as I started out of the door and down the wooden steps at the side of the chalet toward the ground about eight foot below. I would have been about half way down the steps when the water arrived. I was taken from the steps by the wave into it’s ripping curl. I could feel some sizeable debris raining down onto me in the water. I remember having a relatively calm train of thought that attached itself to a realization that this event was to be the means of death for me. So this is how I die; a solution to that lifelong curiosity. I attempted to look up from my buried position but I could detect no light; either because of the amount of debris or because of the density of silt in the water. From this point I can remember no more. Oddly, I never once felt panicked. My belief is that I was submerged for thirty to forty seconds. As I am writing this from earth and not heaven it is clear that, somehow, I survived. From the position of being submerged in that very very dark watery dead end I, somehow, found myself on the surface of the water alongside a chalet in the row behind the one that I was trying to escape from. Its outside stairway was still intact and I was afloat alongside its upper banister. Again I felt it prudent to avoid being on or in a chalet and opted to clamber into a tree using the banister for a leg up onto one of the lower boughs. I hadn’t climbed a tree for at least a quarter of a century but these circumstances were encouraging to a point more harrowing than I had ever before encountered. As I was negotiating my chosen position of safety I became aware of the eeery quiet that had descended across the gardens. As though the whole of every living thing from the plants to the birds and everything in between was either dead or in spellbound awe of the sheer and in this case destructive power of nature. Once I had elevated myself to a point well above the water I took in the view. I could see at least one collapsed chalet. There was a ghostly absence of life and the air was deathly still. Then I became aware of a worrying miserable despairing human groaning. It was a ladies sound. The picture became clearer, she was Mum to two young children of about three and five years old. Dad was around too but white with fear and concern. They were inside of the chalet that I had used as a leg up into the tree that I was now perched in. Father appeared on the slanting balcony. What should we do? Were his only words either because he was German or because he could be no more pleasant under these distressing circumstances. Probably the latter. I gave him my view on the situation. It would be no fun inside that chalet if it collapsed especially with two young children and all this water. He turned whiter and nodded in solemn agreement. He retreated into the chalet and I heard him say to his wife that there is a man in a tree outside that can still think. What shall we do? His wife appeared and I noticed her looking at me in a kind of visual denial as if she hadn’t believed her husband but had now seen me and was running down an avenue of thoughts such as … My God, first of all a gigantic wave that has come through the gardens, rocked our chalet and blocked our escape and now a man in a tree that can still think, it’s not possible; whatever is going to be next? He re-appeared. He had started to think. He asked me if I would take his son into the tree with me. Of course! I replied. We, me and the German white faced man’s son, sat in the tree together wondering what to do and why all this was happening. The wife clambered, with the husbands help, into another tree on the far side of the balcony and took the daughter into it with her. We retained our chosen positions of defence for a minimum of another forty minutes. We witnessed two more waves that rocked and rolled everything around us, including the chalets and in particular the chalet alongside my tree that was still being perched in by the German father of two and husband of one tree climbing female. As we coasted towards an hour beyond the arrival of that first vicious torrent of water and probably a full twenty minutes free of other water born motion I realized that the waters were in fact beginning to recede a little… In synchrony with that observation I was aware of voices calling to myself and others to escape the waters and the flooded garden area. Locals had arrived at the edge of the bank, the rise to from the garden to the surrounding area and the path to reception and the reception lobby. There was an urgency in their voices that matched a desperation in my mind. Wet, muddy, bruised, dazed and grazed I joined a few other forlorn souls in the short trek to the bank and made my way in mental solitude to the resort entrance where a few other guests had already begun to congregate. Staff at the lobby desk were beginning to run a register of reporting guests so I meandered a while, registered as a survivor and turned my mind to my friend. A glance at the register showed that there was no mark against his name. I needed to find him. I realized I was without footwear. I made my way back down toward the garden area but I guess I got it wrong. I appeared in a clearing and was amongst what appeared to be very basic living accommodation presumably for the staff of the resort. It was quiet apart from the gentle pur of a small fourstroke motorcycle approaching from behind me. The rider was a middle aged Thai man who beckoned for me to get on to the pillion seat which I did. We trundled off down the jungle path, him with a ploy and me in a daze. He delivered me to the main road which was less than 10 minutes gentle trundle through the jungle. I began to think that the Thai’s had already hatched some sort of recovery plan and that it entailed delivering injured or lost tourists to strategic meeting or collection points along the road system close to the coastline. I was fussed over by the locals and ushered to the closest abodes bathroom with signals of shower and clean up which I endeavoured to do. My friends plight was becoming more prominent in my muddled mind. Then I noticed a girl that worked in the resort and remembered that she had spoken some English. I explained my position and that my immediate concern was for my friend. I explained that I needed to head off back to the resort to look for him. She understood and immediately began to look for a means of transport. Within minutes a truck turned in from the main road and began to in toward the resort. She flagged the vehicle down and explained my predicament. Deal. I was signaled into the open rear of the truck and we moved off back in toward the resort and the gardens. I could think of little to do but call my friends name as we rolled along the jungle track. I was at the fifth call and raising the urgency and volume of my voice as it each time it was met with no response. Then my heart rose and a flush of relief poured through me as a voice called back…Gra! I banged on the roof of the truck and he stopped to allow me to alight. I am not normally a hugger of friends but this was the first reaction. We were speechless. He looked in ggod shape. In fact probably better shape than me. So we ambled onto the reception area in a mixture of dazed amazement, brief conversation and some tears. The coming days were to be even more disturbing!

Dear Chris,

please let me take this opportunity to appraise you of the results of this weekends celebrated Beckhampton Blackberry Poll.

I’d like to begin with a little of the background: In his capacity as ‘Chief Meddlar’, Mr F Avenall has sewn unprecedented neighbourhood anxiety in our local health program of late through his endless talk of blackberry deficit related illnesses; the most serious of which is rumoured to be a middle ages complaint called autumn eyeburn. Autumn eyeburn arises from the strong late summer sun being consistently and inexorably reflected from sparkling white T shirts and other similar garments. Blackberry deficit results in a reduced visiting bird population and a lack of red birdshit on clothes line dried whites along the block.
Meanwhile, another local octogenerian, Mrs Smith, often referred to as Joyce, in her well acknowledged capacity as ‘Lead Encourager’ has been frequently seen dancing the dappled stones of 66’s garden. Allegedly attired in period pagan robes and matching head dress Joyce cavorts freely with ritualistic fervour (who is not of this neighborhood – possibly from Stratton which is believed to have strong Roman connections as it is really close to Ermin St) in what is believed to be the Blackberry Moon Salsa. Ancient beliefs transgressing centuries of fruit worship suggest that the starlit performed Blackberry Moon Salsa produces the most juicy, succulent blackberry fruit on worshipped bushes.
Other inputs are more discreet. The Lane household have refined an attitude of indignant disregard. Only recognisable by this summers abandonment of the race for jungle supremacy. The unchecked urban growth at the rear of 68 became a victim of midsummer festivities. This years chosen solstice activity of druid like garden clearance was nothing but a well disguised act of submittal. There was nothing flourishing in 68’s soil that would bring them anywhere near close to receiving the blocks inimitable whisper of disgrace, characterised by the hushed tones, turned back and bent head, for the most neglected garden.

So, to return to the heart of the subject, please allow me share the following with you; Amongst those that care and in complete contrast to expectations created earlier in the year there is an overwhelming vote in favour of selfishness. In addition there is no one that is willing to compete in the event that you have so excelled in.. the race for urban jungle supremacy. You have a clear and outstanding position in that field and receive the blocks ignominous accolade. Now please leave the bloody bushes alone until we have had a chance to pick the fruit from what looks like the biggest and best crop for years.

Unfortunately we were unable to capture a shot of Ritualistic Fervor and Joyce dancing but you can see bushes at the height of their supremacy.