Passage Through Peartree

I squinted into the bright spring sunshine. My walking mate did the same and snuffled a trademark sneeze, shaking his furry mane. We never thought we would make it to this hallowed ground. He pulled at his lead, keen to continue our travels. So much planning had gone into this journey of a daytime, he didn't want to miss a thing.

We were excitable travellers as we reached Peartree Park. It was a tonic to our housebound, sedentary bones to stretch our legs (of vastly different lengths) and we revelled in every moment of fresh air, despite the whipping wind blowing across the common from the River Itchen. The sky was a cobalt blue canvass across which the gnarled fingers of the trees clawed upwards towards the warming rays.

A ribbon of daffodils ran alongside the church and we couldn't resist following the yellow petal road. My canine companion took joy in tramping through the long grass, savouring the scents and then adding his own flavour to the mix.

The big tourist sites loomed large: on one side the world famous Pear Tree Inn, offering a jukebox and crisps to all (a faint trace of stale lager and cheese and onion still lingered on the breeze). On the other side, the 400 year old Pear Tree church, seeping with history. Literally a location where God calls you one way whilst the devil offers you a seat at the bar. My furry friend and I could not be swayed either way and so continued our own journey. We had business to attend to.

Unexpectedly, we were treated to a glimpse of the natural wonders found in this part of the world. Being low to the ground, my travelling partner jumped first as the giant pigeon flapped towards him. Well, not really a giant, but quite big. The silver beauty waddled across the path to collect his treasure. A Penguin wrapper, I think. He must've felt a natural winged affinity with the shiny plastic. We watched in awe as he flew away, slightly lopsidedly, towards the trees.

Alas, there was no time to dawdle and bask in the glory of mother nature. My companion still had to find a suitable place to answer his own call of nature.

Taking the road back towards home, up the slope that's quite a struggle when your're a chihuahua, we passed a kitchen window. The window flooded us with a pulsing blast of jungle music. We must've been fortunate to be passing on a special occasion or at festival time as the music was loud as well as having some human accompaniment. In a mark of respect for the wishes and values of the local natives, we passed by without comment but with a slight rave in our step. When in Woolston...

On the other side of the road we were distracted by a beautiful vista. The spring blossoms were in full bloom and in the wind, they snowed down on us like confetti. They perfectly matched the transit van to complete the picture.

Our journey was almost at an end. But we had yet to fulfil our destiny. As we walked the final stretch along the suburban streets, I implored the tiny tyrant by my feet to comply. It was only as we reached the last corner, did he start to make the familiar movements. Beneath a vintage, cracked road name sign, he pivoted and twirled and found his spot. Upon a lush bed of dandelion weeds and ominous stinging nettles too close for comfort, he unloaded the package. We had completed the business of the journey.

I never thought I'd treasure the journey down the path that I've trodden countless times so much. Who knows when we'll get to walk these streets of Peartree once again?

Well, probably tomorrow morning as the dog walking schedule dictates.

But who knows what wondrous sights and delightful moments will await us. We are wayfarers wandering through our next adventure. With a trusty poo bag in hand.

The Least Exotic Cypriot Hotel

When I told a friend of mine that I was going to Cyprus, he said that it was similar to England, just a tiny bit different. Like a tweaked version of the green and pleasant land. A Twilight Zone version if you will. And he was very much correct.

I really felt I was in the Twilight Zone as I first arrived. On stepping onto the coach to take me to the hotel, my ears were attacked by the crooning of Mr Chris Rea regarding 'The Road to Hell'. Not what one wants to hear when arriving tired, disorientated and hungry in a foreign country, late at night and with a coach driver hurtling along winding coast roads. But hey, that's what I got.

Three times.

The loop of the tape (and I say tape rather than CD because the age of the coach and George the driver were both vintage) was so short that during the journey to drop EVERYONE else at their hotels before me, we travelled said road to hell three times.

And I survived.

That must be a good start to a holiday.

On arrival at the hotel, I checked in, writing my address on the form. The hotel desk clerk looked at it with wide eyes. Ten years ago, he used to live two roads away from where I live. He used to drink in my local pub. We chatted about the local 'landmarks'. You could not make this up.

The next day, I got to see more of the hotel and meet some of the residents. Most of the hotel guests were Brits or Germans. The British contingent was huge and there were many older residents and lone travellers. I met 84-year-old Brian from Cardiff, Alvin from Yorkshire and Barbara and Jean from 10 miles away from my front door. They were all a delight to talk to and gave me a lot of advice about the hotel, the facilities in the immediate vicinity around the hotel and key towns and villages around Cyprus. These members of the older generation were a delight to spend time talking to.

Brian told me that he goes to that same hotel, twice a year for three weeks at a time, as do many of the other guests. He calls them 'the gang'. A group of retired folks who meet up in the Spring and the Autumn for a few weeks of socialising, sunbathing and romancing. Yes, Brian had a lady friend joining him the next day. I was beyond happy to hear his tales of courtship and life.

Brian said that they jokingly liken themselves to 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel' and he's not far off. They all arrived as individuals and made friendships throughout their stay, and subsequent stays. Sat at dinner, Brian had to say hello to people every few minutes as diners entered or left the restaurant. The next day, a lot of them sat together to sing happy birthday to one of their fold. It was a beautiful community to witness.

The hotel, despite being on the coast of the Med, was very much an enclave of British life. The food could've been served at any British restaurant. Sure, we had Mexican night, Indian night and obligatory Greek night, but there was always a thread of familiarity running through the buffet line. One night we even had roast dinner, complete with Yorkshire puds. Brian advised me to go for the apple crumble and custard for dessert, and boy did he have the down-low on that.

And the mornings brought a cooked breakfast worthy of any greasy spoon cafe. I particularly liked the fact that the toaster had to have this sign added to it halfway through the week, presumably due to the fact that some poor soul couldn't last the holiday without the familiar comfort of cheese on toast.

The hotel was also blessed with a wide selection of activities: quizzes, archery, darts and daily bingo accompanied by mandatory silence and looks that could kill if you dared to break the unwritten rule. Even the hordes of newly formed child gangs were forced to put their games of tag or hide and seek on hold during this sacred time. 

There was so much going on, and traditional ice cream cones on offer throughout the day to enjoy in the gardens or around the pool, that you needn't ever leave the hotel. You could enjoy the Mediterranean weather in a British bubble. 

I said you COULD. 

Of course, I left the hotel. 

Of course, I saw the beaches of Cyprus. 

Of course, I saw the history of the ancient civilisations. 

And here's one of my favourite pictures for evidence. 

But you could read all about that in a guide book. You don't need me to tell you any of that. 

A wise 84-year-old once told me over apple crumble, "Life is about people. That's all there is." and I had to blink away the tears.

I always knew that to be true, but it took a random dinner companion in a hotel that was a little slice of England in the middle of the Med to remind me. I didn't go on holiday to make new acquaintances. In fact, my sole aim when I boarded the plane to Cyprus was to speak to as few people as possible. I needed some quiet time. 

But as soon as I had ten minutes of quiet time, I was ready to have some people time again. Brian and his gang came bursting into my life to allow me a little glimpse into their own daily lives. It has also made me look forward a little more to old age. It might not have been exotic or brimming with Cypriot history, but my face ached with smiles and my heart glowed with companionship as I spent time living amongst the residents of The Least Exotic Cypriot Hotel.