Beer, Football, and Mr Peanut

Remembrance Sunday 2010

2010-11-14T01:10:00.007Z

Spitfire, Spitfre

Spitfire, Spitfire, flying on high,

Knight of the realm in the blue Sussex sky,

Camouflaged eagle, our national guard,

Angel of freedom, bound never to die.

Hear the siren, the clang of the bell,

"Quick to your aircraft", the captain will yell,

Jump in the cockpit to meet fast the foe,

Guns fully loaded, ascending to hell.

I was a pilot, a postman by trade,

I had to fight, for your future I paid,

My wife and my children, last though in my mind,

Long in the memory, never to fade.

Flag of our union, all we hold dear,

Defend us from hatred, from evil, from fear,

Remember this day, lest we ever forget,

Poppies on crosses, shed many a tear.

NJT

Work Experience!

2010-08-10T11:38:00.004+01:00

Uncovered: The Palace that Slipped into the Sea
By Nich Turner

Marine discoveries of Cleopatra’s palace at Alexandria have uncovered many artefacts due to excellent preservation conditionsOngoing marine excavations at the Egyptian port of Alexandria may have uncovered the palace of Cleopatra, lost for over 1,600 years after slowly sliding into the sea. Fieldwork conducted over a twelve year period by a team headed by Franck Goddio, and later Zahi Hawass, has unearthed what many experts believe to be the long-lost royal site where the Egyptian queen lived and, ultimately, took her life with lover Mark Antony. The site has led to the discovery of many fascinating artefacts; a massive stone head of Caesarion, Cleopatra’s son, a headless sculpture of a female goddess, thought to represent Cleopatra herself and, most importantly, the statue of a great priest of Isis, holding a canopic jar and two sphinxes, regarded by archaeologists as King Ptolemy, Cleopatra’s father. The excellent preservation of the palace is due to the anaerobic conditions of the underwater complex, where there is little oxygen to aid the erosion process. As a result, many organic artefacts have been brought to the surface, including a wooden platform thought to have been part of a Royal house, and a papyrus document, which may bear the actual handwriting of the Egyptian queen.

Zahi Hawass, famous Egyptologist and self-proclaimed Indiana Jones, says he will now be searching for the tomb of Mark Antony, and indeed believes it will be possible to find the bodies of the tragic couple sharing their last embrace. Hawass, who famously demanded the return of the Rosetta Stone from the British Museum in 2009, says that any discovery of this sort would represent the biggest find in Egyptian archaeology since Howard Carter discovered the tomb of Tutankhamen in 1922. Meanwhile, whilst the exploration of the underwater complex continues, the incredible artefacts have gone on display in Philadelphia’s Franklin institute, with tours across America scheduled for 2011.

18 June 1940

2010-06-18T11:00:00.003+01:00

"What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour."

A new beginning...

2010-05-12T01:22:00.002+01:00

Join me for the news: www.thisblogthinks.blogspot.com

Saint George's Day

2010-04-23T12:00:00.000+01:00

England, My England

What have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,

England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,

As the Lord were walking near,

Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown,

England -

Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful sun,

England, my England,

Match the master-work you've done,

England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen

Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,

England -

Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England -

'Take and break us: we are yours,

England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high

Between English earth and sky:

Death is death; but we shall die

To the Song of your bugles blown,

England -

To the stars on your bugles blown!'

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys

Of such teeming destinies,

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,

England,

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea's delight,

England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,

There's the menace of the word

In the Song on your bugles blown,

England -

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

William Ernest Henley

Electioneering...

2010-04-22T01:20:00.002+01:00

Join me for the news: http://www.thisblogthinks.blogspot.com/

Holocaust Memorial Day 2010

2010-01-27T10:00:00.000Z

Today marks the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau by the Red Army.

If This is a Man

You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find warm food
And friendly faces when you return home.
Consider if this is a man
Who works in mud,
Who knows no peace,
Who fights for a crust of bread,
Who dies by a yes or no.
Consider if this is a woman
Without hair, without name,
Without the strength to remember,
Empty are her eyes, cold her womb,
Like a frog in winter.
Never forget that this has happened.
Remember these words.
Engrave them in your hearts,
When at home or in the street,
When lying down, when getting up.
Repeat them to your children
Or may your houses be destroyed,
May illness strike you down,
May your offspring turn their faces from you.

Primo Levi

Light a candle: http://www.hmd.org.uk/

There's snowbody like the British!

2010-01-12T21:26:00.009Z

Britain – it’s a hell of a country. And we’re one hell of a people. You only need to turn on the six o’clock news to see how we tear each other to pieces – military parade protests, strikes, gang violence, chavs, scabs and racists. We’re top of the European league for teenage pregnancies, heart disease and binge drinking, we’re one of the most self-centred societies on the planet, and we’re severely lacking in sporting and artistic talent. Britain, immigration hotspot and murder capital of the continent. Britain, king of the credit-crunch and benefit fraud paradise. Britain, living in the past, because the future has all gone wrong. So, why do we all stay?

I think it’s moments of crisis and difficulty that bring a nation into its own and allows its true colours to shine through. Tonight, I have just got home from a four hour journey back from Exeter, which for those who don’t know, is about 20 miles from where I live. Half way up notorious Telegraph Hill, the weather changes quite suddenly from cold rain to snow, and the traffic grinds to a halt. My friend Tris’s beautiful 42-year old Morris Minor struggles up the hill, and promptly dies in the long queue. Several attempts are made to revive the poor vehicle, but it soon becomes apparent that we’re in for a long afternoon. Tris finds an ambulance medic – let’s call him Brit Number 1 – who supplies us with blankets and helps us push the car to the side of the road. Two more guys jump out of their cars to assist us – Brits Number 2 and 3. Once at the roadside, phone calls flying all ways, a van driver – Brit Number 4 – stops to give us each a cup of hot coffee from his thermos.

As the light dims, and the traffic begins to swim slushily around us, Brit Number 5 winds down the window of his car to give us some chocolate bars and a can of coke. Moments later, Brit Number 6 offers us her bottle of water, warning us that she’d opened it the wrong way, and to be careful not to spill it. Terry – my step-dad and Brit Number 7 – keeps me calm on the phone and tells me that we shouldn’t wait with the car, but should flag down a passing vehicle, and get a lift to town if we can. I flag down Brit Number 8, a police ‘silver control’ 4x4 traffic vehicle driver, and he takes us around the traffic queue and off the dual carriageway. Brit Number 8 left Exeter hours before, and won’t be going home to sleep tonight; he’s already dealt with four jack-knifed lorries, and there are many more motorists in trouble. He passes us on to his colleague, Brit Number 9, who drives us back onto the carriageway, and personally arranges us a lift from a finger-prints expert at Middlemoor police station, Brit Number 10. It’s a dark, long and eerie drive, icy and dangerous, and he says he quite likes having the company. We’re just relieved to be on the way back to civilization.

When the chips are down, as they seem to be these days, it can be difficult to see the good in other people. The newspapers will readily tell you the bad, how we should mistrust each other and look after ourselves alone. And yet tonight, ten Brits have gone out of their way to see that I’m ok, to offer some help, be it a warming blanket, a chocolate bar, or a free lift into town. And the funny thing is, I’ve never even met nine of them, or know their names. So here’s a message of hope for the future – we’re not finished as a nation, and when we need to, I think we can still pull together like we always have done. Because really, after all the media hype about how this place is finished, we’re still a hell of a country. And we’re certainly one hell of a people.

Thanks you ten for getting me home safely tonight.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-25T10:06:00.006Z

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

Hark! The herald angels sing"

Glory to the newborn King!

Peace on earth and mercy mild

God and sinners reconciled"

Joyful, all ye nations rise

Join the triumph of the skies

With the angelic host proclaim:

"Christ is born in Bethlehem"

Hark! The herald angels sing"

Glory to the newborn King!"

Christ by highest heav'n adored

Christ the everlasting Lord!

Late in time behold Him come

Offspring of a Virgin's womb

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see

Hail the incarnate Deity

Pleased as man with man to dwell

Jesus, our Emmanuel

Hark! The herald angels sing

"Glory to the newborn King!"

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!

Hail the Son of Righteousness!

Light and life to all He brings

Ris'n with healing in His wings

Mild He lays His glory by

Born that man no more may die

Born to raise the sons of earth

Born to give them second birth

Hark! The herald angels sing

"Glory to the newborn King!"

Paris Day Four - Opera Garnier to Musee du Louvre

2009-11-22T23:14:00.011Z

The destination for the final full day in Paris is the Opera Garnier, designed by Charles Garnier for Napoleon III in 1862, and one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. The main auditorium is being used for rehearsal, which is a shame, but the rest of the complex is accessible, and for a small fee we are able to wander freely. The Grand Staircase is the biggest attraction, with everyone wanting their photo on the famous steps, and it doesn’t take much to imagine the suited, sophisticated opera-goers on the nineteenth century strolling up and down, reviewing the latest performances or discussing the problem of the opera ghost. Beyond the staircase are the side rooms, galleries and the magnificent Grand Foyer, bejewelled with chandeliers, sculptures and fine art, with access to the balconies looking out over the traffic-crazy Place de l’Opera. There’s also a small museum, exhibiting scripts and costumes from Charles Gounod’s Faust, and my personal favourite part of the opera, the reading room which, as well as many books and music scores, has some replica scenes from various productions scaled down and made out of paper.

We’re off to the Musee du Louvre in the evening, which leaves the afternoon free, and that means only one thing to me; back to Montmartre. Taking lunch in a café on Rue de Abbesses, I eat country ham, gingerbread toast, a mozzarella fritter, a mini roasted camembert wrapped in bacon, whilst also greedily eyeing Tris’s club sandwich. When it’s time to hit the streets again, we jostle with the artists and street vendors, then come across a woman singing brilliant versions of famous Edith Piaf songs. We, the crowd, all join in when it comes to the chorus of Padam, although we leave the more complicated verses for her to sing alone. Then it’s to the shops, where expensive galleries and lovely food counters sit side-by-side with tacky souvenir shops, selling everything from plastic Arc de Triomphes to Eiffel Tower shaped bottles of brandy. I love the Montmartre, and as we head down to Place Saint Pierre, leaving the brilliant-white Sacre Coeur behind us, I look back for a farewell glance. I don’t think it will ever lose its magic to me.

The Musee du Louvre opens late on Wednesdays and Fridays, allowing you to explore the galleries after sunset. Having been to the Louvre before, I knew what to expect – amazing artwork and fantastic archaeological artefacts – but this is one of those places that would take several days to see everything properly. We focus on the famous works of art, then the Roman, Etruscan and Egyptian galleries, with their stunning collections. I especially like model Egyptian rowing boats and the Roman head busts, some of which have been so beautifully crafted, you cannot quite believe their age. When it’s time to leave, we wander to the Place de la Concord, the obelisk of Luxor towering high above. It’s then a final stroll up the Champs-Elysees to Charles de Gaulle Etoille, for the metro back to the hotel. And finally, having waited all week to see one, there’s an accordion player in our carriage. It’s almost the perfect way to round off my second visit to the City of Lights. It has been very different from my first trip, and for me quite emotional, yet great to see the city again, to explore it from another angle, and to get to know it a little better. I’m already planning my next trip to this unique and fabulous metropolis. Vive la Paris – Long live the City of Lights!

25 at 25

2009-11-19T23:54:00.005Z

25 things I want to do before I turn 26...

1. Read Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quixote

2. Grow a sunflower

3. Try French absinthe

4. Get a driving licence

5. Take a ride on the London Eye

6. See the Red Arrows at Dartmouth

7. Read Homer's Odyssey

8. Learn the geography of Africa

9. Spend a whole day in the British Museum

10. Visit Chysauster Ancient Village

11. Learn 12 different constellations

12. While away a summers day watching cricket

13. Discover the city of Bristol

14. Try rabbit

15. Watch Shakespeare on the stage

16. Go to the Tate Gallery, London

17. Find the grave of General Buller

18. Read the Journal of Lewis and Clark

19. Climb to the top of Haldon Belvedere Tower

20. Watch all the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers films

21. Go fossil hunting on the Jurassic Coast

22. Watch an Exeter Chiefs rugby match

23. Go shopping in the National Geographic store, London

24. Go to a classical concert

25. Watch the sunrise with someone I love

Reflect and Remember - Armistice Day 2009

2009-11-11T11:00:00.000Z

Front Line

They tell us not to worry
They tell us we'll be fine
They say our duty must be done
To fight on the front line

They say we shouldn't panic
They say we're well prepared
"And if you die, that's glory, boys
No reason to be scared"

We're dug in on the trenches
We're ankle-deep in dirt
Our beds consist of stinking rags
The ground too cold to hurt

Our sunrise is a firebomb
Our cockerel is a shell
It wakes us with a mighty crash
It sends us straight to Hell

They give us meagre rations
There isn't much to spare
No fruit, no sweets, no juicy meats
Full stomachs, they are rare

The days are filled with bloodshed
The nights are filled with fear
The piercing sounds of filthy war
The gunshots far and near

They've said our boys are ready
They've said our time is right
We'll go over the top today
We'll finish off the fight

They told us not to worry
They told us we'd be fine
They said our duty must be done
To die on the front line.

N.J.T.

"No more wars. No more walls. A united world". 09.11.89

2009-11-09T21:58:00.002Z

Paris Day Three – The Catacombs and the Musee d’Orsay

2009-10-22T20:22:00.010+01:00

Towards the end of the 17th century, the population of Paris began to grow substantially, and as a consequence, the churchyards and cemeteries of the city reached saturation point, creating a huge health hazard, and a difficult question - where do you put the dead of Paris? After some deliberation, it was decided to create three new large-scale suburban cemeteries, leaving the remains within city centre cemeteries to be moved into some abandoned quarries. The result was the Catacombs of Paris, a vast underground network of tunnels in the south of the city. Arriving with a feeling of apprehension about the whole experience (for excitement, read: Tristan) we make for the 150 steps that take you far beneath the Parisian streets, below the sewers and the metro lines, and into another city – the City of the Deceased. For lining these passageways, the accessible part of which stretches for over two kilometres, are literally thousands upon thousands of bones and skulls, neatly arranged and interspersed with plaques detailing which cemetery they come from, and when they were moved. It’s a wholly surreal experience to come face-to-face with the remains of so many people, and it can be very easy to forget that each bone was part of a person at one time. Looking at one skull, I wonder who it belonged to, when they were alive, what they did for a job, where they lived, and who they loved. Death seems quite impersonal here, and it is something of a great leveller, for it shows that whoever you are and whatever you do with life, we are essentially all the same underneath. The experience is certainly unique, being stuck under the French capital in stillness and silence, whilst life bustles on above in frenetic pace, blissfully unaware of the Empire of the Dead down below.

Back on the surface, and time for something with far more life, we head for the Musee d’Orsay, one of the world’s finest art galleries. Housed in a former railway station, the gallery boasts a phenomenal collection of art from Impressionist, post-Impressionist, Art Nouveau, Symbolist and Romanticist artists. Favourites for me are Renoir, who’s “Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette” is simply beautiful, to Monet, and of course Van Gogh. But perhaps the best work of art is the building itself, the stunning station clock being a work of art in its own right. Upstairs, the rooftop is open to visitors, and taking a stroll to overlook the Seine we see in the distance, high atop the hills of Montmartre, the Sacre Coeur, standing brilliant and proud, looking down on the whole city. Back inside, the works of Gustave Courbet, Edgar Degas and Paul Cezanne complete a fabulous afternoon, providing a breath of life and a streak of colour after the morning’s morbid antics.

Paris Day Two – Ile de la Cite to the Avenue des Champs-Elysees

2009-10-01T21:59:00.003+01:00

The oldest and most historic part of Paris, Ile de la Cite is the larger of the two islands in the Seine, the smaller being Ile Saint-Louis. Paris was born on this natural island, and it has always been the religious centre of the city since the foundation stone was laid to the cathedral Notre-Dame de Paris (‘Our Lady of Paris’) in 1163. The magnificent cathedral took 170 years to construct, and has since stood proud and majestic, the spiritual and symbolic centre of France. Making for the interior through the “Portal of the Virgin”, we wander for a while, marvelling at the grand organ, and beautiful Rose windows. Back outside, the magnificent stonework is stunning, confirming the cathedral as one of the world’s most stunning buildings. Across Ile de la Cite is the other religious centre, Sainte-Chapelle. Generally considered even more beautiful than Notre-Dame, the church has 15 stained-glass windows rising 50 foot high, creating the illusion that the chapel is built more of glass than of stone. As well as the windows, I particularly like the apostle statues – a series of twelve carvings standing on pillars along the walls.
You could probably stand and gaze at the stained-glass of Sainte-Chapelle all day, but time moves on, and after a quick wander around the Crypte Archeologique, which showcases the Roman foundations of the city, we make for the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. Probably the world’s most famous road, this stylish and glitzy avenue never loses its appeal to me, and the hustle and bustle of the evening crowd adds no-end to the atmosphere. The avenue boasts one of the most expensive strips of real estate in the world, with cinemas, cafes, boutiques and luxury shops nestled under well-cared-for chestnut trees. Even the local football team – Paris Saint Germain – have an outlet here, and the selection of merchandise is quite staggering!

At the top of the Champs-Elysees, standing proud and resilient, is the Arc de Triomphe. Far more than the world’s busiest roundabout, the Arc is France’s monument to those who fought and died for the country. Commissioned after Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz in 1805, the Arc has become the centre of France’s conscience to war. This is perhaps best displayed by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the buried remains of a World War I victim, watched over by an eternal flame. It’s a very poignant monument in this respect, and requires a moment to think, to shut off the surrounding bustle and find time for reflection.

Upstairs, there are tremendous views over the whole of Paris. The Arc de Triomphe may not be as high as the Eiffel Tower, but the views are no less spectacular. This is the way to view the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, and watching the traffic from the top of the giant Arc is mesmerising. In the distance we can see as far as Pere Lachaise, the Montmartre and the far off suburbs, as well as all the famous landmarks – Hotel des Invalides, the American Cathedral, and La Grande Arche de la Defense, a large square monument to humanity and humanitarianism. In every direction there are a million illuminations filling the night air in a way I have never seen before. This is why I love Paris. This is why Paris is called “The City of Lights”.

Paris Day Two - Rue Mouffetard to Shakespeare and Company

2009-09-24T21:12:00.008+01:00

Rue Mouffetard, in the fifth arrondissement of Paris, has been one of the city’s livliest neighbourhoods of decades. Author Ernest Hemingway used to shop in the markets here, and although all was quiet on the morning of our visit, the street is well known across the city for the sale of fruits, vegetables, meats and fish.

Just minutes from Rue Mouffetard is the beautiful Pantheon, built as a church to honour Paris’s patron saint Sainte-Geneviève and completed in 1789, just in time for the French Revolution. The Revolutionary government changed the Pantheon’s use to a mausoleum, a final resting place for the great and good of France. Those buried in the beautiful building include Victor Hugo, Voltaire and the Pantheon’s architect himself, Jacques-Germain Soufflot. Well, he certainly deserves to be there!

It’s a short walk down Rue Soufflot to the Jardin du Luxembourg, one of the most beautiful and popular parks in the city. At the head of the park is the Luxembourg Palace, now home of the French Senate, and in front of this, a lovely pond where children sail boats and feed ducks. Elsewhere in the gardens, a military parade is taking place, and we find ourselves mingling with soldiers and firemen marching to a crisp brass band, under another gorgeously sunny sky. Retiring to a quieter part of the park, we happen across Frederic Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty, a smaller and older version of the famous New York example he also built. It’s a reminder of the good relations that have existed between France and America for many years.

Wandering down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, we get to my favourite shop in Paris. Nestled on the famous and bohemian Left Bank, Shakespeare and Company, an English language bookshop, is a must for any lover of books. The original Shakespeare and Company was located on rue de l'Odéon, was owned by Sylvia Beach between 1919-41, and frequented by a number of the Lost Generation of authors including Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Joyce. The shop was closed down due to Nazi occupation in 1941, but was resurrected in 1951 by American George Whitman. As is the tradition, the shop still offers accommodation to writers trying to establish themselves, and I can only imagine it must be a unique experience to stay there a while. I can think of no better accommodation to experience Paris’s love affair with literature.

Paris Day One - Pere Lachaise and the Montmartre

2009-09-21T19:42:00.007+01:00

Pere Lachaise, in the east of the city, in Paris’s largest cemetery, a sort-of city of the dead within the French capital, with hundreds-of-thousands of former residents buried under a fantastic number of tombs and headstones. Famous inhabitants include composers George Bizet and Frederic Chopin, writers Oscar Wilde and Gertrude Stein, scholar Jean-Francois Champollion, and singer Edith Piaf, ‘the little sparrow’. The scale of the place is astonishing, for this is no ordinary burial ground. Built under the orders of Napoleon Bonaparte in 1804, the cemetery quickly grew from having only a handful of burials, to become the final resting place of 33,000 in just a few years. Its reputation as a desirable place to be buried got bigger and bigger, as the rich and famous clamoured to be dead there. Pere Lachaise is now one of the world’s most famous and most visited cemeteries.

Finishing in the cemetery, we go on a quest for something quite personal to me. At the start of the year, I bought (some say crazily) a Parisian street sign from eBay. The street was Rue de Saintonge, and the sign has been on my wall ever since. Being in the east of Paris, and with an hour or two to kill, we set out to find Rue de Saintonge. It’s unremarkable as far as roads go, nothing more than a little side street with a few small boutiques. But to me it’s so much more – it’s a link to home, and the idea that I own a tiny piece of the street’s heritage resonates with me.

Going via the Centre George Pompidou, a huge ‘inside-out’ building that is the apt home of the Museum of Modern Art, we make for what is for me, the most beautiful, atmospheric part of Paris. Taking the metro to Abbesses, one of the city’s deepest stations, we emerge into the beautiful Montmartre evening. I stayed in the Montmartre with my old girlfriend Jane when I was last in Paris, and to me, there is nowhere that feels so perfectly Parisian. We make at first for the Sacre Coeur, the iconic white domed cathedral with the most exceptional of views, and as we climb the steps to the cathedral doors, so Paris falls away behind. I’d admit to being struck with a little sadness at being here again. This is where Jane and I spent our first night in Paris; it’s a time that I will always remember fondly and lovingly, and a place that will be in my heart forever. Inside the Sacre Coeur is the Great Mosaic of Christ, created by Luc Oliver Merson between 1912-22, an overpoweringly beautiful work of art. Outside the cathedral, the performers are in full swing, guitars and singing wafting gently through the air, as we wander the side streets, browse the shops, and watch the artists painting and drawing in Place de Tertre. All too soon it’s time to leave the Montmartre, at least for now, but as we wait at Anvers station for the last train of the night, I’m already planning my return to this beautiful quarter of the city.

70th Anniversary of the declaration of the Second World War

2009-09-03T21:38:00.004+01:00

September 3rd, 1939

"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.

You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me that all my long struggle to win peace has failed. Yet I cannot believe that there is anything more or anything different that I could have done and that would have been more successful. Up to the very last it would have been quite possible to have arranged a peaceful and honourable settlement between Germany and Poland. But Hitler would not have it. He had evidently made up his mind to attack Poland whatever happened; and although he now says he put forward reasonable proposals which were rejected by the Poles, that is not a true statement. The proposals were never shown to the Poles nor to us; and though they were announced in the German broadcast on Thursday night, Hitler did not wait to hear comments on them, but ordered his troops to cross the Polish frontier next morning. His action shows convincingly that there is no chance of expecting that this man will ever give up his practice of using force to gain his will. He can only be stopped by force and we and France are to-day, in fulfilment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland, who is so bravely resisting this wicked and unprovoked attack upon her people.

We have a clear conscience. We have done all that any country could do to establish peace, but a situation in which no word given by Germany's ruler could be trusted and no people or country could feel themselves safe had become intolerable. And now that we have resolved to finish it, I know that you will all play your part with calmness and courage.

At such a moment as this the assurances of support that we have received from the Empire are a source of profound encouragement to us. When I have finished speaking certain detailed announcements will be made on behalf of the Government. Give them your close attention. The Government have made plans under which it will be possible to carry on the work of the nation in the days of stress and strain that may be ahead. But these plans need your help. You may be taking part in the Fighting Services or as a Volunteer in one of the branches of Civil Defence. If so, you will report for duty in accordance with the instructions you receive. You may be engaged in work essential to the prosecution of war or to the maintenance of life of the people-in factories, in transport, in public utility concerns or in the supply of other necessaries of life. If so, it is of vital importance that you should carry on with your jobs.

Now may God bless you all and may He defend the right. For it is evil things that we shall be fighting against, brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution. And against them I am certain that the right will prevail".

Neville Chamberlain

(Above: The Times Newspaper reports the story)

Book Review

2009-08-06T21:04:00.004+01:00

Catch 22
Joseph Heller

Based on the Italian island of Pianosa, Joseph Heller’s Catch 22 follows the activities of 256 squadron, American Army Air Force, during the Second World War. The protagonist – Yossarian – is a B-25 bombardier, unmoved by patriotism, and as the war drags on, increasingly convinced that it is an attack on him personally. Driven by his ambition to be promoted to a general, Yossarian’s superior, Colonel Cathcart, continuously raises the number of missions for the squadron to fly, in the hope that it will reflect favourably on him , but as the strain of war begins to tell on the group, the deaths and casualties mount up, and one-by-one Yossarian watches his friends fall in combat, mentally self-destruct, or become victims of the very regime they’re fighting to protect. Perhaps the term ‘death by bureaucracy’ could be applied to the situation on Pianosa, as it becomes clear that the war is less about fighting the Axis powers, and more about lining the pockets of ruthless capitalists, and advancing the careers of the military high-command.

What we are left with from Catch 22 is an enormous sense of the futility of war, and the disturbing question of who the normal flying men are really fighting for. Heller suggests, through this brilliantly-worded book, that the fight is not for patriotism, but for the self-gain of others, in a capitalist society that will ultimately let them down anyway. In a world where their allied generals are more of a threat than enemy planes or flak, the bombardiers of 256 squadron are faced with the very catch-22 that Heller means to portray: do you fight for a system that won’t benefit you, or do you refuse, and let it destroy you completely?

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" (Confucius)

2009-07-20T10:00:00.002+01:00

July 20, 1969

"We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organise and measure the best of our energies and skill, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too..." (John F. Kennedy)

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, I'll never forget, I hope you won't either

2009-07-19T00:21:00.009+01:00

Dire Straits - Romeo and Juliet

A love-struck Romeo sings a street-suss serenade
Laying everybody low, with a love song that he made
Finds a street light, steps out of the shade
Says something like; "you and me babe, how about it?"

Juliet says "hey it's Romeo, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"
He's underneath the window, she's signing "Hey-la my boyfriend's back!
You shouldn't come around here, singing up at people like that!
Anyway, what ya' gonna do about it?"

Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start
And I bet, you exploded into my heart
And I forget, I forget, the movie song
When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

Came up on different streets, they're both the streets of shame
Both dirty, both mean, yes and the dream was just the same
And I dreamed your dream for you, and now your dream is real
How can you look at me as if I was just another one of your deals?

When you can fall for chains of silver, you can fall for chains of gold
You can fall for pretty strangers, and the promises they hold
You promised me everything, you promised me thick and thin, yeah
Now you just say "Oh Romeo yeah, you know I used to have a scene with him"

Juliet, when we made love you used to cry
You said I love you like the stars above, I love you 'til I die
There's a place for us, you know the movie song
When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

I can't do the talk, like they talk on the TV
And I can't do a love song, like the way it's meant to be
I can't do everything, but I'll do anything for you
I can't do anything 'cept be in love with you

And all I do is miss you, and the way we used to be
All I do is keep the beat, and bad company
And all I do is kiss you, through the bars of a rhyme
Juliet I'd do the stars with you, anytime

Juliet, when we made love you used to cry
You said I love you like the stars above, I love you 'til I die
There's a place for us, you know the movie song
When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

A love struck Romeo, sings a street-suss serenade
Laying everybody low, with a love song that he made
Finds a convenient street light, steps out of the shade
Says something like; "you and me babe... how about it?"

x x x

Fighting for choice, dying for freedom...

2009-06-04T00:00:00.001+01:00

Tiananmen Square Massacre

4 June 1989

This Thursday, make sure you vote in the UK local and European elections. You have the choice. You have the freedom. You are one of the privileged few.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/june/4/newsid_2496000/2496277.stm

Trust... Believe... Never give up...

2009-05-17T23:58:00.006+01:00

. . . . . .

Torquay United

Blue Square Premier Playoff Winners 2009

. . . . . .

A few of my style icons

2009-04-12T19:24:00.007+01:00

Establishing my own post-student fashion, I've began to discover some of the great style icons of the past century. For coolness and class, you simply cannot beat the sophisticated, tuxedo-wearing gents, classic actors, singers and dancers that have become the epitome of men's fashion. And even though they date to fifty years ago or more, there's nobody today that even comes close to matching them. For where would we be today if Gene Kelly hadn't have sung in the rain, if Sinatra hadn't have done it his way? Watching these guys perform in vintage movies or on music sets, there's something magical, something pioneering about them.

A quick search on Youtube reveals some of the most brilliant performances; there's Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers' amazing singing and even better dancing, Dean Martin's cool crooning, and Gene Kelly's beautiful dance through the rain-soaked Hollywood streets (and in my opinion, one of the most wonderful pieces of musical theatre ever). You can't help but raise a rather wide smile when you watch them, and they certainly prove one thing; that the oldies definitely are the goldies! How many of the stars pictured below can you name?

People watching with Vincent Van Gogh

2009-03-30T20:31:00.014+01:00

Today, Beer, Football and Mr Peanut once again celebrates the birthday of painter Vincent Van Gogh. I was lucky enough to visit the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam last year, and what struck me most of all was Van Gogh's amazing ability to capture the human character, portrayed through light, colour and vibrancy. Van Gogh saw the overwhelmingly positive side to mankind, something that it is all too easy to forget in the modern world, but something that we should always remember. We are often shown the negative parts of human nature on the news and in the papers, but a brief look through some of Van Gogh's paintings reveal the truly wonderful side of humanity. Below are some of his lesser known paintings from Arles on the theme of his fellow man. I think I'll just let the paintings do the talking...

"An artist needn't be a clergyman or a churchwarden, but he certainly must have a warm heart for his fellow men".

(Paintings top to bottom: The Dance Hall of Arles; Ladies of Arles; Red Vineyard of Arles; The Arena at Arles)

Amongst literary greats

2009-03-21T20:59:00.007Z

What's 32-pages long, has a rapacious appetite, and is one of the best books you'll ever read? Why it's Eric Carle's The Very Hungry Caterpillar of course, and this year it celebrates its 40th anniversary! The little picture book has never been more popular, with one copy selling ever thirty seconds around the world, in one of the 47 languages it has been translated into. More than 29 million copies have been sold to date, and awards include a position in the BBC's Big Read poll of 2003, where it ranked as 199 in the nation's favourite books, placing it amongst all-time literary greats such as Charles Dickens, Jane Austin and Thomas Hardy. And why has the book been such a success? Creator Eric Carle, speaking to the Daily Telegraph, explains; "I think the Very Hungry Caterpillar is a hopeful story, because it says 'you too little caterpillar can grow up, spread your wings and fly'. I think it is this message of hope that resonates for many readers".

So happy birthday to one of the greatest books ever written, The Very Hungry Caterpillar. In a time of great global instability, it's somewhat comforting to know that the little caterpillar who couldn't stop eating is still out there wowing children and delighting adults the world over. I only hope that the book's positive message gets passed down to further generations, and that we will be able to celebrate it again in another forty years. One thing's for certain; it'll definitely be in my children's bookshelf!

World Book Day 2009

2009-03-05T23:00:00.003Z

"Anyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book". (Anon)

http://www.worldbookday.com/

Lessons in democracy

2009-02-12T14:00:00.001Z

Today, Beer, Football, and Mr Peanut celebtrates the 200th anniversary of the birth of one of history's most important and inspirational leaders. He was a man who brought himself up from a poor and uneducated background to become a successful lawyer and politician. He was a man who believed in democracy, and in the rights and equality of all men. And he was a man who realised the importance of preserving, albeit at heavy costs, a union that would go on to become the most important country in the modern world, a beacon of hope and freedom, and a definition of democratic government that every nation would aspire towards. In every sense he gave his life to his cause, from his first political speeches, to his last moments where, cruelly, he was assassinated for giving people the freedom to decide their own lives. He was the "Great Emancipator", democracy's biggest advocate, and one of its greatest heros. He was Abraham Lincoln.

In the height of the Civil War, which would define the nation up to the present day, Lincoln delivered his most famous speech, the Gettysburg Address, following the Battle of Gettysburg, one of the bloodiest American battles of all time. During his speech, which lasted little over two minutes, Lincoln invoked what it is to be a democracy - the freedom, the equality, and the wonderful gift of self-government. He tried to explain how difficult this was to defend, but how it indefinitely needed defending, and how those who died in the cause of democracy would never be forgotten. When he sat down afterwards, he declared that "he had failed" in what he had said. Little did he seem to realise, he had just made one of the most important speeches in history.

As a blogger, involved in publishing and opinions, Lincoln's words hold particularly true to me. We often take democracy for granted, yet sometimes we need to take a step back, look at the world today, and realise how lucky we are. Democracy is the greatest form of government - imperfect as we all know it is - not only because its fundamental principles give us the right to chose our own future, but because it gives us the security to voice our opinions, read our own books, and watch the television programmes we want to watch. We can criticise, we can praise, we can remain indifferent. How many countries in the world is that the case?

If democracy means something to you, then take Lincoln's two minutes to read the Gettysburg Address, to think about the words, and try to work out how much of it still holds true today. In age age of uncertaintly, it appeals to me more than ever, it says exactly what needs to be said, and it acts as a reminder to us all of the preciousness and sanctity of the right of every human being. And after reading and re-reading his speech, I'd like to suggest that democracy is something we should hang onto, something we should revere, and something we should never be willing to surrender. So happy birthday President Lincoln. And thank you for teaching me such a valuable lesson.

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

November 19, 1863

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

3rd February 1959: The day the music died

2009-02-03T20:56:00.006Z

"A long, long time ago...

I can still remember

How that music used to make me smile.

And I knew if I had my chance

That I could make those people dance

And, maybe, they'd be happy for a while.

But February made me shiver

With ever paper I'd deliver.

Bad news on the doorstep;

I couldn't take one more step.

I can't remember if I cried

When I read about his widowed bride,

But something touched me deep inside

The day the music died..."

(Don McLean, American Pie)

Holocaust Memorial Day 2009

2009-01-27T12:00:00.000Z

Today marks the 64th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau by the Red Army.

"In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again".

(Anne Frank)

Light a candle: http://www.hmd.org.uk/

Presenting the 44th president of the United States...

2009-01-20T16:00:00.001Z

“Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek”.

A good year for reading?

2009-01-12T18:55:00.006Z

Looking back on my 2008 blog, New Years Resolutions, I find time for a little reflection on whether I achieved the targets I set myself a year ago. My blog that day was about books, the novels I wanted to read, and the importance of literature to us all. A year on, and I stand by my sentiments all the more so. Reading, that wonderful process of understanding symbols and their order, is something that we often take for granted in our Western society; it's taken as a naturally given right, an innate ability, something that we do without thinking. The truth is that for much of the world's population, the ability to read is a luxury, a skill possessed by the rich and privileged. Whilst we in Western Europe and America have a 99% literacy rate, there are parts of Africa where only 25% of the population can read, and in Nepal, where little Lila Sara is learning about the world, only one half of its population can read.

Thinking about 2008, I perhaps fell a little short of my New Years Resolutions target, as a blip in my personal life was followed by an avalanche of university work, but I still managed to tick off some interesting and memorable books: F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera and the Diary of Anne Frank, which I picked up in Amsterdam, are all books I had not planned to read at the start of the year. Added to them was a mix of classic and more modern literature, giving an excellent spread of subject matter. Jeremy Mercer's Books, Baguettes and Bedbugs, Hemingway's Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises, and Erich Remarque's brilliant All Quiet on the Western Front are other books I will never forget reading.

This year, free from university work, I'm planning to continue the same line of reading, to get stuck into some of the greats, as well as to relax with the lighter authors. I'm starting with what is widely claimed to be the greatest novel ever written; Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace which, at over 900 pages, will keep me occupied for quite a while. After that, there's the lesser known Scott Fitzgerald novels, This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned and The Last Tycoon, as well as Ernest Hemingway's Green Hills of Africa and For Whom the Bell Tolls. I'll be heading to sea with Herman Melville's Moby Dick, trotting the globe with Jules Verne's Around the World in Eighty Days and peering into the world of pre-Civil War America, with Harriet Beecher Stowe's historically influential novel Uncle Tom's Cabin. Beyond this, there's Joseph Heller's Catch 22, Henry James' The Ambassadors and The Europeans, James Joyce's Dubliners, and J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. Hopefully that will leave time to fit in Peter Moore's Swahili for the Broken Hearted, and Geert Mak's new travel book, In Europe.

It all leads to a fascinating year of reading for me, and another challenge that I am relishing. And looking beyond this year, the most exciting thing is that I can delve into my "books to read" list, and count dozens more novels that I'd like to read in the coming few years. It is as Martin Tupper said: "A good book is the best of friends, the same today and for ever". With that in mind, I cannot wait to get reading this year!

The Europe of hope

2009-01-01T12:00:00.000Z

Up at six thirty. Out the door at seven. At Madrid Charmatin station at seven thirty. On the train at eight. I'm coming home.

The journey from Madrid to Santander is one of the most delightful, as we pass through snow-capped mountain scenery, through tunnels and over scrubby land, on our way to the Atlantic port town. I accidentally booked the journey first class, so am treated to a breakfast on board the train, including a bread roll, croissant, yogurt, and hot potato with carrots, peas and onions. It's a Euro-blowout, a fine way to say goodbye to the continent after five weeks on the go. I arrive in Santander on time, and can immediately see the clear sea-faring history of the town. I only have a few hours to kill before my ferry departs, so I wander the port area, see the cathedral and some of the monuments, and get caught up in a crowd of German Shalke 04 football fans, here for the UEFA cup match against Racing Santander. Too tired to explore much more, and carrying five weeks worth of travel in my backpack, I head for the ferry port. My ferry, the Pont-Aven, is in port, it's being prepared, and the signs look good for a prompt departure.

Standing on deck, the sun setting over the Spanish hills, I wave goodbye, not only to Spain, but to continental Europe. As the coast fades into the distance, it takes with it the memory not only of Santander, but of the last five weeks of my life. In truth, I cannot believe I'm here, and as I sip on a well-deserved beer, my experiences flood back to my mind - Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich, Rome, Milan, Nice, Montpellier, Barcelona, Madrid - and I try to make sense of it all. What I'm left with is an enormous sense of two things; firstly, of European culture, and secondly, of my personal achievement, to go it alone, and to discover my own continent. In the coming weeks and months, I will learn how much the experience has changed me, how it has given me a newfound confidence and a belief in myself. And whilst I am proud of myself, I know I could never have done it without the love, help, and support of so many people, my family and friends, who have always been there to give me the encouragement I have needed. I dedicate all my travel blogs to them.

Heading back across the Bay of Biscay, to my home that I love dearly, it dawns on me that I am not actually leaving Europe, but am instead travelling on to a different part of it. Our different coutries are all unique and diverse, and as such, Europe should never be viewed as a homogenous part of the world. But looking beyond the cultural differences, there is a basis of core ideals and values - respect, culture, liberty, democracy - that are common to us all. We are not one, and we should never try to be, but we are one unity, made up of entirely different parts, coming togther with the aim of co-operation and mutual respect. In the past month, I have seen the monuments and museums dedicated to how Europe has torn itself to shreds, and how the common goal for humanity has been forgotten. We are now living in a time of unparalleled peace and prosperity, which not only allows trips like mine to take place, but also enables mine and future generations to live together, and foster good will and respect to all corners of the globe. Mine is not a unique trip, but Europe is a unique continent, looking to the future, whilst justifiably proud of its past. I will be forever grateful that I was afforded the opportunity to experience some of it; I will never forget the autumn of 2008.

Presidents, parks, and Picasso

2008-12-31T03:02:00.000Z

"Barack Obama will be the next president of the United States of America. This was the news I woke up to this morning, having gone to sleep last night just after he won pennsylvania. It's a very historic election, and he becomes the first African-American ever to hold such a position. The world will have to wait and see now, to see wether Obamba brings change to the globe, and to see whether this has a positive effect on war, the economy, and international relations. We are all in need of more co-operation, and I hope that the promises hold true, and that we can enter a new and more peaceful age..." (Wednesday November 05, 2008).

Rolling out of bed quite tired, I choose to spend my last day in Madrid - indeed, my last full day in any of the cities of my journey - at the Reina Sofia art gallery, showcasing the work of some of the twentieth century's most famous artists. The permanent collection is on display on two floors of a converted hospital, with a central courtyard. The building isn't beautiful, as many of the world's great galleries are, but the scale of the collection is beyond impressive. The first part of the collection, on the lower floor, is given over to the first half of the century, with many artists on display, including Salvador Dali, Joan Miro, and Daniel Vazquez Diaz amongst others. The second part of the collection concentrates on art after 1940, with a focus on international context. For me, this half is not quite as interesting, although I enjoy the pop art gallery, and some of the contemporary art from the last decade.

I of course omit one artist and one piece of art from the above: Pablo Picasso, and his famous work Guernica. Guernica is the centerpiece of the gallery, and although everybody knows the painting, nothing can prepare you for seeing it for real. It's much bigger than I ever realised, and a much more complete work of art than I ever thought by seeing it in books and on the internet. Rooms following Guernica show preliminary sketches, focussing on certain aspects of the painting - such as the dead soldier - which give a sense of what Picasso was trying to portray. There is also much focus on the bull, and this icon appears in many of Picasso's other paintings on display. Guernica isn't a nice piece of work, but it gives an evocative sense of the horrors of war portrayed in a way that I don't think anybody could have done better.

My afternoon being free, I shake off the city life and visit Parque del Retiro, Madrid's favourite park, which started life as royal grounds. It is beautiful in the autumn air, with the browns and reds of the trees, and many crunchy ones on the footpaths. The park has fountains and statues, a boating lake which is looked down on by a monument to Alfonso XII, and little palaces hidden by trees and hedges. Musicians play all along the shores of the lake, and I particularly enjoy the saxophone player, who recites When Autumn Leaves Begin to Fall, before moving on to Frank Sinatra's My Way. I reflect in the park, on a trip nearly over, and a wonderful challenge nearly complete. Playing Sinatra on the saxophone is the perfect tune to stick in my mind on my final day in Madrid. It has been my trip, it has been fun and I've loved it. But most importantly, I have done it my way.

Made in America

2008-12-30T12:49:00.000Z

"Today, citizens of the United States are going to the polls to elect either John McCain or Barack Obama as the next president. It's a decision that affects the whole world, from Los Angeles to London, and Miami to Madrid, where I take the day very easy, and do the most appropriate thing I can think of: visit the Museu de America..." (Tuesday November 04, 2008).

Spain has an unrivaled link to the Americas, dating back to when Columbus first 'discovered' the continent in the name of the Spanish monarchy. Future Spanish voyages to the Americas were less friendly, and the Aztec and Inca empires were brought down by Spanish guns and European diseases. Many of the native objects were destroyed, or melted down to make Spanish religious artefacts, but much of what did survive ended up in this wonderful museum, which is divided into five section; how America was perceived by medieval Europe, the reality, the evolution of native societies, religion, and communication between the old and new worlds. The collection is extensive and beautifully presented, and although it's nearly all in Spanish, I am able to identify the names of many of the cultures displayed. There are Incan, Mayan and Aztec artefacts, but also lesser-known cultures such as the Moche, with their beautifully crafted ceramic pieces, and earlier stone tools from north America, such as arrowheads and clovis points. Many of the displays remind me of the Tropen Museum in Amsterdam, and the Dahlem museums in Berlin, and this is another top-class centre that is a pleasure to visit. Even more amazing, it was only three euros for a ticket, making it the best-value visit of my entire trip!

I try a couple of other museums in the afternoon, but both are closed for refurbishment, so I go and see the Plaza de Colon, at the centre of which stands a column dedicated to Columbus, with the man himself at the top, looking up to the heavens. It seems entirely appropriate to end the day with the man who discovered America, and as I head back to watch the election coverage unfold on the hotel television, I realise that, having seen so much of its history today, I will be observing a large part of its future tonight.

Sports and sightseeing

2008-12-29T20:20:00.000Z

I pull into Madrid Atocha station aboard the fastest train of my journey, clocking up speeds of 300 kilometres an hour, as we rocket through the Spanish countryside. The landscape is just as I imagined it would be, with scrubby vegetation covering jagged hills and valleys, different from anywhere else I have travelled. In my mind, Madrid has always been the city that signified the closing of my trip around Europe, and I arrive with mixed emotions, as thoughts of home creep in, and memories of the last five weeks flash through my mind.

I head out onto the streets of my ninth city on a deceptively cold day, looking to take in the main sights that the city has to offer. I make my first port of call the Estadio Vicente Calderon, home of Madrid's second-favourite team, Atletico de Madrid. The stadium is down by the River Manzanares, which is something of a disused industrial site, but one of the pleasures of visiting football grounds is that you often end up in areas that you would otherwise not have seen. The stadium is impressive and modern, although first built in 1966, and was fairly recently awarded UEFA five-star rating. A dual-carriageway passes under one of the stands, whilst on the other side, the club megastore sells everything the Atletico fan could ever want.

I return to the city centre, to the Plaza de la Cibeles, a busy roundabout with the famous fountain of Cybele in the centre, showing the goddess of nature on a chariot, being pulled by two lions. From there, it's a short walk to the Gran Via, possibly Madrid's busiest road, and home to the Metropolis building and the Edificio Telefonica. Ernest Hemingway recalls avoiding bullets and shells along the Gran Via, during the siege of Madrid in the Spanish Civil War. The areas reminds me a lot of London, so I wander down to the Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, in the centre of which stands the symbol of the city; a statue of a bear climbing an arbutus tree. Then it's on, via the royal palace gardens, to the delightful Plaza Mayor, a picturesque square, the centerpiece of which is the Casa de la Carniceria, beautifully painted with murals of people and fantastical characters on the front wall.

Leaving the city centre sights behind me, I go in search of what is arguably Madrid's best know landmark. Real Madrid FC's Santiago Bernabeu holds around 80,000 spectators, and is one of the world's great stadiums. I walk around it, in an attempt to gain some perspective on its size, and eventually arrive at the club shop, which is three floors high, and stocks everything, from baby dummies to scarves, wine glasses to cufflinks. Football is clearly booming business in the Spanish capital, but you would expect nothing less from the club that FIFA recently voted 'the best club in the history of football'.

I finish the day at a lesser known sporting venue, the Plaza de Torros, which is home to the most Spanish of sports, bullfighting. Now, bullfighting isn't really my thing, but you cannot deny the beauty and elegance of the structure, which was opened in 1931, holds 25,000 spectators, and houses its own chapel and hospital. It's undoubtedly the most important bullring in the world, and as I'm reading Hemingway's Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises, it seems all the more fitting to visit the arena. Although there are no fights on the day I visit, I fancy I can feel the atmosphere swirling around the plaza, as everybody gets ready for the fiesta. In reality though, it's just the cold wind blowing all around me, telling me it's time to get back to the hotel, tired but quietly contented with a good day's exploring.

Modern Barcelona

2008-12-28T17:49:00.001Z

My final day in Barcelona prompts me to do something typically Barcelonan, so I set off on a self-devised tour of the best of the city's modernista architecture. My first stop is Parc Guell, a magical park of twisting paths and fairy-tale buildings, set on a hillside, with amazing views of the city. Parc Guell was given UNESCO world heritage status in 1984, due to its unique architecture, which I must admit borders on the absurd, in a very charming and comical way. The houses look like gingerbread houses, topped with candy roofs, fun but almost sinister, like something out of Hansel and Gretel. There's a lively and artistic atmosphere at the park, with musicians playing tunes on pipes and accordions, whilst tourists barter with stall holders over souvenir statues of the rainbow lizard, which sits in the centre of the park, and is one of Barcelona's most famous landmarks. Leaving the Saturday crowds behind me, I take the metro back to the centre of town, to see the castle-like Casa de les Punxes, and the Mansana de la Discordia - literally the 'block of discord' - where three rival architects, Antoni Gaudi, Domenech i Montaner, and Puig i Cadafalch, built houses under the direction of competing families. Gaudi's house - Casa Battilo - is the only one visible today, as the others are undergoing repairs, but the cartoon-like appearance of the building is so alternative and crazy, that it just wouldn't work anywhere other than Barcelona. I finish the tour at the Palau de la Musica Catalana, famous for its many mosaic-covered columns. This concert hall was constructed by Domenech i Montaner between 1905-08, and although I don't venture inside, I can tell from the facade that it is architecturally superb.

I spend the latter part of the day up on Montjuic, which is reached by way of a funicular. It's a fun ride, taking you high above the city in little over a minute. When we're at the top, most people head for the cable cars, but I go the other way, through leafy gardens, where people are picnicing in the late afternoon sun, to the Estadi Olimpic - the olympic stadium - built for the 1992 Olympic games, and now home to football team Espanyol. One end of the stadium is open, allowing visitors to view the inside of the ground, and further around the stadium, other Olympic venues can be reached, such as the indoor stadium, and the swimming pool. The whole complex is quite impressive, and it's easy to imagine the buzz around the place when the games were held here. It's special for me too; the 1992 games was the first time I had ever heard of Barcelona, and if they hadn't brought the world here, catapulting the city onto a global stage, and transforming it into the visitor-friendly place it is today, I probably wouldn't have come.

Taking the funicular down to the city, I find time to reflect on my stay in Barcelona. I have enjoyed my days in the Catalan capital, and if I were staying longer, I would no doubt find much more to do. For me, Barcelona has managed to merge modern entertainment with traditional living, and is a city very proud of its history, and also of its future. Where else could the medieval splendor of the cathedral sit so at ease with gingerbread houses and quirky sculptures than Barcelona? It's a funny mix, and one that few cities could pull off successfully, yet for some reason, in a very unique sense, it works perfectly here. I will definitely be returning to Barcelona.

Avoiding the rain

2008-12-27T15:32:00.002Z

In complete contrast to the previous day, the rain doesn't stop as I struggle down Carrer de la Princesa, en route to the Museu Picasso. Pablo Picasso lived some of his earlier life in Barcelona, and inside the museum, a selection of his works - predominantly of his early career - can be seen. The queue spills out onto the street, and I notice that I'm the only one without an umbrella, but we move quite quickly, and I am soon admiring the works of one of the twentieth century's most influential painters. It's an education to wander the galleries and learn about Picasso's life, and I understand a great deal more about his rose and blue periods, and the transition to cubism, which marks an amazing transformation in his style. It is a surprise to see some of his early works, which show a lot of conventional skill and artistic talent, and prove that whether you like him or not, Picasso really could paint.

I leave the Museu Picasso and its many visitors, and look for an altogether quieter place to while away the rain-soaked afternoon. I choose Parc de la Ciutadella, practically deserted in the bad weather, which has turned earth paths into mud ponds. Stepping carefully, I enter though the Arc de Triomf, designed for the 1888 Exhibition by Josep Vilaseca i Casanoves. Inside the park, I make for the Museu de Ciencies Nanturals - the museum of natural sciences - which is housed in two buildings on one side of the park. I begin in the museum of zoology, containing an amazing collection of fauna from around the world, with a focus on Iberia. The layout is very Victorian, with stuffed animals kept inside old wooden glass-fronted cabinets, but this is very much part of the appeal for me, as I wander past collections of insects, fish, mammals, birds, invertebrates, and a selection of malacology - shells and molluscs. When I am done with zoology, I make the short walk down the park to the museum of geology, and whilst the minerals are not my particular area of interest, the fossils are fascinating. I am pleasantly surprised by the museums, which offer the perfect antidote to the crowds, and the pitter-patter of rain on the windows and ceiling makes it feel all the more atmospheric. It's one of those places where you can definitely feel a sophisticated edge, and the type of place that I came travelling to find.

A day by the sea

2008-12-26T19:29:00.004Z

I peer tentatively through the curtains of my room and crane my neck upwards until I can see, high above the courtyard walls, the first blue sky since I arrived in Barcelona. The news from Devon is of terrible weather, with Ottery St Mary practically under water following flash floods, and I feel slightly guilty for enjoying one of the most beautiful days of my trip.

I head out onto the buzzing streets of the Catalan capital, down La Rambla, Barcelona's famous market street, and to the Museu Maritim, which is housed in the Drassanes Reials - the royal shipyards. Inside, I am taken on a voyage through different types of ship, from sail to steam, past lovely collections of models, and maritime and navigational equipment. The main attraction is the full-scale replica of The Real, which was commanded by Don Juan of Austria during the Battle of Lepanto in 1571. It's very impressive, sitting snugly under the gothic arches of the building, but it certainly isn't the only draw to the museum, and there are many other small boats to see. In one corner, an area is set aside for men who are delicately and lovingly making new boat models for the museum. The ones I see being crafted look so professional, it makes me realise the skill and expertise that has to go into such displays that, when visiting, we often overlook. Moving on, I come across old diving equipment, posters, and a reconstructed ticket office for transatlantic crossings. By the time I'm done, I feel as though I've seen hundreds of boats and maritime artefacts, but that's no complaint; the museum is a delight to stroll around.

Crossing the road from the museum, I get to Placa del Porta dela Pau, where Christopher Columbus stands atop a huge column, pointing defiantly out to sea. The Monument a Colom commemorates Columbus's return to Spain following his discovery of the Americas, and around the side are a number of reliefs depicting various stages of his journey. I particularly like the depiction of Columbus pointing to a globe, presumably explaining his discovery to learned onlookers. He is also shown being presented to the king and queen of Spain, and arriving in the Americas, where native people give him a cautious welcome.

Crossing the Rambla de Mar, a wooden walkway across the water, I find my second destination of the day. It's billed as the largest aquarium in Europe, and although its size leaves me a little underwhelmed, the quality of the exhibits certainly do not. The major theme of the aquarium is the Mediterranean, and a series of large tanks showcase some of the many hundreds of different species of fish that inhabit the waters just off the coast. I am particularly impressed with the tank of lion fish, which are very beautiful, but highly poisonous; their barbed fins can do some serious damage if they stab you, yet they swim around so gracefully, you would think them harmless. Beyond these tanks is the 80-metre long anderwater tunnel, which slowly moves visitors along a mechanical walkway, transporting me through the deep blue sea, where sand tiger sharks glide around over my head, accompanied by many other different fish, seemingly living in perfect harmony together. At the end of the tunnel, I head upstairs to 'the other side of the world'. Highlights include a beautiful display of cardinal tetras and discus fish, a penguin enclosure, and a tank of iguanas.

Continuing the maritime theme of the day, I stroll around Port Vell, and along Barceloneta beach where, even in the cool breeze, people lay out to sunbathe. Towards the end of the beach is a glittering fish sculpture created by artist Frank Gehry, and called the Peix. I find a lot of comedy in the piece, which sits snugly atop a building, in the shadow of two sky scrapers. It's quirky, like the many other sculptures I see in the port, and it fits Barcelona perfectly. It also marks a fitting end to my day on the coast, which has highlighted the importance of the sea to Barcelona, its history, and its identity.

Merry Christmas, one and all!

2008-12-25T10:20:00.004Z

Joy to the World, the Lord is come!

Let earth receive her King;

Let every heart prepare Him room,

And Heaven and nature sing,

And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.

Joy to the World, the Savior reigns!

Let men their songs employ;

While fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains,

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat, repeat the sounding joy.

No more let sins and sorrow grow,

Nor thorns infest the ground;

He comes to make His blessings flow,

Far as the curse is found,

Far as, far as, the curse is found.

He rules the world with truth and grace,

And makes the nations prove

The glories of His righteousness,

And wonders of His love,

And wonders, wonders, of His love.

Beer, Football, and Mr Peanut wishes everyone a very merry Christmas, and a peaceful New Year. And get well soon grandma, Christmas won't be quite the same without you.

Time standing still

2008-12-23T13:04:00.004Z

I arrive in Montpellier following a train ride across the French Riviera, passing through such notable places as Antibes, Cannes, and Marseilles, before heading around the Gulf of Lion towards Montpellier. It's an eye-popping journey, the dazzling Mediterranean on one side, the mountainous peaks rising on the other, everything you expect from a train ride along one of the most fashionable stretches of coastline in the world.

Montpellier, capital of the Languedoc-Roussillion region, is an artistic and cultural place, a university town with a population of around 250,000. On a wonderfully autumnal day, I take to the streets and head for the town centre, the Place de la Comedie, which is dominated by the Comedie opera house. It's my first hint of the sophistication of the city, and around the square, true French cafe culture is in full sway, as Montpellians take time out for a coffee and a croissant. Beyond the town centre, older streets criss-cross the main roads and are full of small shops, boutiques, and cafes. I search for the shop of the local football team - Montpellier HSC - but instead happen across the Arc de Triomph, admittedly smaller than the famous Parisian example, but still rather impressive. Its pink facade stands out well against the bright blue sky, and unlike in Paris, traffic actually passes through this arch. I pass through it too, and enter the Promenade du Peyrou, a park surrounded by trees and benches, at the end of which is a stone pavilion, and beyond this, the Saint Clement aqueduct heading off into the distance. There's also numerous statues, fountains, and churches to see in the town centre, and I somewhat regret not being able to find a guidebook to the city. Nonetheless, there's a certain appeal to getting lost in a new place, to 'wing it' and see where you end up.

I only have one day in Montpellier - it was, after all, supposed to be nothing more than a quick stop off point en route to Barcelona - but I'm glad I discovered this jewel of a town. Everything about the place is so French, so atmospheric and cultural. In the evening I head back to the centre of town, buzzing with people out for a stroll, a party, a coffee, or just waiting for the tram home. On the Champs de Mars, people gather around a cluster of tables, eagerly observing games of chess, whilst the more care-free play with the giant chess pieces on the checker-painted ground. I love the peaceful, unthreatening nature of the place, the quiet but confident sophistication of a town that clearly loves its identity. And although I'm leaving so soon, I take with me some very fond memories of Montpellier, a town with hidden charm, where you can almost feel time standing still.

Musee National Message Biblique Marc Chagall, Nice

2008-12-20T12:18:00.000Z

Nice to see you, to see you... Nice!

2008-12-19T19:49:00.004Z

"It occurred to me today that I haven't really mentioned the latest news in my diary, and as this appears to be something of an historic time, I shall do a quick round-up. The main focus of the news, as has been the case my entire trip, is the stagnation of the global economy. Today, the United Kingdom announced its economy was shrinking, Iceland took a loan from the International Monetary Fund, and OPEC declared that it was cutting oil output by 1.5 million barrels a day, to try and increase the price of oil. The second major news event is the United States election - Barack Obama versus John McCain - which will be settled on November 4th. I think it's a massive choice for the American people, as we are in a very unique place in the world right now. Being on the road like I am tends to put you out-of-touch with the news, and it's always good to get a round-up of events during this globally significant time. I only hope the economy can get back on track, and that people aren't too deeply affected back home..." (Friday October 24, 2008).

I roll into Nice, fifth city of France, in a massive state of relief, following an impromptu strike by the French railways, that grounds me for a while at the Italian border town of Ventimiglia. I'm more than a little happy to have arrived in the French Riviera - it's a place I've wanted to go to for a while, so perfectly was it portrayed in F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night, which I read at the beginning of the year, and it's a thrill to stroll along the Mediterranean coast in the warm, yet bracing wind. The next morning, I head for Vieux Nice - the old town - a series of narrow and winding streets, full of craft shops, food stalls, and patisseries. There's a lively sense of commerce, and a buzz of activity around the town, a definite feeling that, despite the large number of tourists, a strong local presence remains. The narrow streets are picturesque, and a joy to wander, but my favourite part are the smells, walking past bakers, pizza bars, fish stalls, soap and incense shops, and one wonderful Italian restaurant with an evocative aroma of fried garlic, wafting out onto the pavements. Local life clearly thrives here, and washing hangs from many of the windows, their colourful shutters flung open to let in the Mediterranean sun. You can really picture the traditional way of life here, vibrant, Latino, Mediterranean, and cultural. It all adds up to an atmosphere I shall never forget.

Leaving the old town, I stroll along the Promenade des Anglais to the Colline du Chateau, site of a castle that was destroyed in 1706. The hill still exists, and climbing the 200 steps rewards me with an excellent view over Nice and the sea-front. From there I see all across the town, and look down on the palm trees and bathers in the sea. I sit on a ledge overlooking some rooftops, and let myself drift away to the dulcet tones of the guitar player sitting in the corner, matching the mood perfectly. Descending from the hilltop, I follow the road away from the beach, to Port Lympia, where diners sample Nicoise cuisine in the shadow of great yachts. On the other side of the harbour, the colourful rowing boats provide a more local flavour, and although they're not as impressive or imposing as the luxury yachts, I prefer them. They're far more fun, and and a lot more full of character.

I don't have long to take Nice in, but I very much like the city and its relaxed way of doing things. Here, tourists and locals seem to have merged their lifestyles seamlessly into one, creating an identity that both embraces change, whilst remaining almost fiercely traditional. I don't think it would work in many places like it works in Nice, and it's this that I think I like most of all about the place. It's the perfect way to escape city life for a few days, to shake the urban pace out of my system, and relax for a while, before the challenge of the Spanish cities sweeps me off my feel again.

Lombardy experiences

2008-12-18T22:46:00.005Z

For my final day in Italy, I choose to eschew the city crowds of Milan, and catch a local train out to the lakeside town of Como. I find local trains are far more interesting than high-speed expresses, and all kinds of colourful characters hop on and off as we crawl through the landscape of Lombardy. There's a distinct reminder of Ernest Hemingway's war novel, A Farewell to Arms, which was set in the very countryside rolling past the window, and by the look of some of the small towns we stop at, nothing much has changed since the war he wrote of, ninety years ago. An hour out of Milan, I arrive at Como, shrouded in mist, atmospheric and autumnal. There's not much point in climbing to the hilltop villages, as the view would be totally obscured by the fog, so I instead wander the harbour, which is practically deserted, save for a couple of stragglers, lingering at a cafe over a glass of coca cola. The town itself is attractive and pretty, with a lovely cathedral that dominates the main square. Beyond this are the shops and boutiques, modern and chic, as befits a town so close to the fashion capital of the world. I could stay, and if I had longer I'd take a boat tour up the lake, but time is pressing, and tonight I have tickets to a must-see event.

Even though I'm only gone for a morning, Milan comes as something of a shock to the system. I had all too easily slipped into the slower, laid-back style of the lakeside town, and to come upon such bustle and business so suddenly does not sit comfortably with me. But there's reason to be coming back to the city, and in the evening I set off on something of a mission to find the San Siro football stadium, which tonight plays host to the UEFA Champions League, where Internazionale Milan take on Anorthosis Famagusta. It's something of a hike to my seat on the second tier, and when I get there, I am surrounded by happy Milanese, out for a good night with one of the finest sides on the planet. I wave at Jose Mourino, but he doesn't wave back, letting his side's football do the talking instead, as Inter play the ball from side-to-side, brilliant pass after brilliant pass. Anorthosis aren't without their threats, however, and go close a couple of times, before Adriano gives the home side a 1-0 lead at the end of the first half. We, the crowd, leap up and down and wave our scarves in the air, and when several happy comments are said to me in Italian, I find a smile and a nod keeps everyone happy. Afterall, I'm wearing a black and blue scarf around my neck, and I'm one of them!

The second half is played out with no extra goals, and I'm reluctant to leave come the final whistle, so fantastic is the stadium, so lively is the atmosphere. It's also a long way back to the metro station, and as I run to catch the last train of the evening, it dawns on me that my time in Italy has come to an end. Tomorrow I move on to an altogether different country, to another big city, and another new language. It's going to be a big challenge for me, but I've survived so far, and as my journey turns westward, I know I'll survive the next step too, as I say "ciao" to Milan, and "bonjour" to the south of France...

Cathedral views

2008-12-14T15:38:00.009Z

Busy, dusty Rome is a distant memory as my train pulls into Milan's famous Stazione Centrale, built under Mussolini in the 1930s, to show the world what new Italy was all about. We've hurtled across the Italian countryside to get here, through Florence, Bologna, and Parma, past mountains and vineyards, and whilst the rest of Italy is waking up to a lazy Sunday morning, I'm strolling the streets of another new city; my fifth out of England. Milan isn't set up as a tourist city, and the sites are relatively few-and-far between, but there's a great feel to the place, a buzzing business atmosphere, far more prosperous, and far more relaxed, than the Italian capital. Milan is cool, calm, and collected, stylish and fashionable, and the jewel of northern Italy's modern economic progress.

At the heart of the city lies the Duomo - the magnificent cathedral, standing tall and proud, the third largest church in the world. The scale of the building is awesome, with fifty two massive pillars supporting the structure. The cathedral took over 430 years to complete, but the gothic style was maintained throughout the work, which began in 1386. Inside, it's much darker than I imagined, and although stained glass windows are dotted around the walls, they don't seem to allow much light in. As one would expect from one of the world's most famous churches, it's absolutely packed with visitors, but quieter seclusions can be sought, not in the ambulatory or the crypt, but on the roof. Most people are sensible enough to take the lift up here, but wanting to keep perspective, I choose the stairs - about two hundred in all - and when I'm at the top, the whole of Milan has opened out before me. They say on a good day you can see the Alps, and although they weren't visible, I could make out the famous San Siro football stadium, faint in the city smog, and arguably Milan's second cathedral. The view is special, but the main attraction is the Duomo itself, for up on the roof, the many spires create a world of their own, like a giant stone forest, completely separate from the Milan I've left below. There's something of the fantastical about it, this unique way to view the Duomo, to get up close to the architecture, all the spires and statues that adorn the building. Apparently there are over 3,500 statues on the cathedral's facade - men, women, angels, and gargoyles - keeping watch over the famous church. And were it not for the fact that I'm off to see the fashion district, I would probably stay with them too, and watch the world go by in the forest of stone.

Scenes from Ostia Antica

2008-12-13T23:30:00.000Z

Matters of faith

2008-12-12T16:30:00.001Z

Rome has a wonderful history. First it functioned as the capital city of one of the world's greatest civilizations, and then it became the very epicenter of one of the world's great religions. Rome is the heart of Christianity; it breathes and bleeds the religion all over the city, and has done for nearly 1,700 years, since Emperor Constantine converted to the faith in A.D. 312.

Stepping into the Vatican City, it is easy to forget that you are in fact leaving behind the Italian Republic, and crossing an international boundary. The Vatican City may be in the heart of Rome, but it has its own flag, its own coat of arms, its own anthem, and its own postage stamps. The Pope isn't there when I arrive, but this certainly doesn't deter the crowds from gathering, and getting off the metro station at Ottaviano, it's simply a matter of following the hoards, each person on their own little pilgrimage to the world's smallest nation. Negotiating the touts offering tours and pizzeria vouchers, I arrive at the hefty stone walls, and follow these around to the museum complex. There's a lot to see, and I decide to get the most famous part over with first, wandering this way and that, through tight corridors, up and down stairs, finally arriving at the Sistine Chapel. You cannot deny the artistic beauty of Michelangelo's incredible ceiling, although finding a good spot to stop and look at it is something of a problem; I don't think I've ever seen so many people in one room before.

Leaving the Sistine Chapel behind me, the Vatican museums are full of thousands of works of art, painted walls and ceilings, and ethnographic artefacts, comprising a collection that is one of the world's finest. I am particularly fascinated by the map room, with all manner of colourful maps of various regions of the world, and the Roman carvings which depict the Adoration of the Magi. Then there's the art; works by Raphael, Caravaggio, and Leonardo da Vinci, amongst a host of others, hundreds of priceless works that would take days to see properly. The sheer amount of art is simply overwhelming, and try as I might, I know I will never be able to take it all in.

Feeling a little 'cultured out' from the huge museum, I take a turn around the giant walls of the city-state, and arrive at Saint Peter's Basilica, which is basking in the early afternoon sun. I stroll around the grounds with a pizza-sandwich, marvelling at the massive obelisk in the centre of the square, which comes from Alexandria, and the two mushroom-shaped fountains, designed by Maderno in 1613. The rest of the piazza was designed by Bernini, and constructed between 1656-67. It now hosts the emotional crowds that gather in their thousands when the Pope gives his services, and although it's relatively quiet on my visit, the rows of empty chairs hint at busier times. It's tempting to go inside the basilica, but the very long queue puts me off, and I instead leave the theocracy and head back into Italy. I'd love to stay, but my trip is slowly getting on, and I've got some souvenir shopping to do!

The heart of the Empire

2008-12-10T17:20:00.001Z

"Watching the sunset from the Pincio lookout, three men heatedly discussed her charms and faults. The first cursed her as a tramp and a vamp, the second called her a coquette and the third, ecstatically gazing down at her, cried that she was the Mother of All, that she was eternal".

(from: Continental Europe, by Rolf Steinberg)

An old teacher once told me that Rome had so many ancient remains, they simply didn't know what to do with them all. I think I always laughed the idea off in my mind, as I was convinced that nowhere could have so much remaining from well over two thousand years ago, that it could just be left for people to look at, sit on, and wander through at their leisure. In Britain, finding a Roman inscription or a mosiac would be a matter of huge significance, and surely, I thought, this must be the same anywhere. Then I went to the ancient heart of the city, and my ideas changed forever.

The sun beats down and there's a dusty, suffocating atmosphere, as I dodge from shadey spot to shady spot amongst the ruins of Rome's most ancient centre. The Palatine Hill is strewn with the remains of Roman buildings; there are fountain remains, bathhouses, crypts, vaults, and even a possible stadium, or at the very least a racetrack or large oval garden. This is ancient Rome at its most wealthy and opulent, looking down on the rest of the city, home to the most important and powerful men in the world. The scale of preservation on the hill is almost ridiculous, and I wander in fascination amongst the buildings, past marble carvings, broken columns, and floor mosaics. It's almost as if the Roman inhabitants just got up and left, leaving behind them a wealth of material that in its day must have been the finest complex in the world.

Coming down the hill, I reach the Roman forum complex, with an equally dazzling array of Imperial power. The forum began life as a marshy cemetery for the wealthy elite on the hill above, but was drained in the sixth century BC to make way for the centre of Roman civic pride and power. In the very centre of the complex is the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, dedicated in AD41 by Antoninus Pius to his wife Faustina. It's one of many temples around the site, and one of the best preserved. Beyond this, there are marble arches, as beautiful and powerful today as at any time in the last two millennia, and a host of basilicas and temples. It's hard to believe that I am standing at the very centre of the empire, the very heart of government and political authority. And I certainly owe them quite a thank you; if it hadn't have been for the government that happened here, the city of Exeter probably would not exist.

Leaving the ancient political centre behind me, I make for what is probably the most famous landmark of my entire trip. The Colosseum is every bit as impressive as you'd imagine it to be, and although it's impossible to avoid fellow tourists and touts, I find something almost mystical about the place. Perhaps it's my childhood dreams of gladiators and wild beast fights, but I find everything in the arena fascinating and, amongst other things, I learn of a rhinoceros who became a city-wide celebrity when he successfully defeated an elephant, a lion, and a bear in consecutive fights in the arena. If that's not a big enough attraction, the Roman citizen could always go and watch the gladiators, who had to fight for seven years to win their freedom. At least they had a chance of freedom; the people who constructed the Colosseum - the craftsmen and masonry experts - were Jewish slaves.

I leave the ancient heart of the city with a different perspective on the Roman Empire. Of course I knew all these sites existed, but until now the Romans had always been brought to life to me through archaeological sites such as Caerleon, Silchester, and Fishbourne and, as amazing as these sites are, there can be no comparison with the grandeur of the Imperial capital itself. It's one big indoor-outdoor museum, one continuous archaeological dig, and one amazing testament to the greatest empire the world has ever seen. And after spending the day here, I think I now understand why they call it the Eternal City.

Stepping back in time

2008-12-08T17:01:00.000Z

I roll into Rome Termini station on the overnight sleeper train from Munich, and am immediately struck by the stark contrast with the crisp German atmosphere I have left behind. In Berlin, life is about precision and efficiency; In Rome, one drifts almost aimlessly from place to place. In Germany, a broken-down metro train would be met with disgruntled impatience. Here, it's an accepted part of life. This requires something of an attitude shift, a cultural change from the northern European way of life that I have lived my entire life. Who cares if it takes three hours to get to the hotel anyway?

I head out through the narrow streets of the city centre, where cars, bikes, and pedestrians play an almost deadly game of cat-and-mouse at every junction. I don't get run over, and find my way to the Pantheon, an amazing temple of Ancient Rome, that owes its preservation to its establishment as the Christian church of Santa Maria ad Martyres. The massive dome roof is the widest masonry dome in Europe, and the hole in the centre allows sunlight - and rain - to pour through to the centre of the building. Just around the corner from the Pantheon is Bernini's Elephant Obelisk, carved by Ercole Ferrata in 1667 as a tongue-in-cheek reference to Hannibal's elephants, which carried siege towers across the Alps in 218 BC. A stone's throw from here takes me to the remains of Hadrian's Temple, eleven huge columns erected in AD 145, by the man who was responsible for the famous wall in England.

The classical archaeologist will never get fed up with things to see and do in Rome, and I spend the latter part of my first day in the city at the Imperial Fora. Amongst other remains, the complex includes Trajan's markets, the forum of Julius Caesar, and the Mamertine Prison, where legend says Saint Peter was imprisoned. For me though, the most interesting part is Trajan's Column, a fine column depicting scenes of Trajan's military victories in Dacia, in what is now Romania. The amazing column is thirty feet tall, and was originally topped by a statue of a bird, although Saint Peter has had pride of place since 1588. The scenes of military triumph wind around the column, and such are the quality of the depictions, they have become the basis for much of the evidence used by archaeologists to learn about the military dress of the time. It's hard to get too close, as there's preservation work underway all around the area, but I nonetheless stand back in awe at the ancient monument. It's not as famous as the Spanish Steps or the Trevi Fountain, but for me it's much more significant, and is the perfect introduction to the Rome I want to explore.

A necessary visit

2008-12-06T15:39:00.000Z

Dachau, west of Munich, is a sleepy medieval town with a population of 40,000, that will forever be synonymous with the terrors of Nazism. Dachau concentration camp was the first camp to be set up by the Nazis, established less than two months after Hitler came to power in 1933, on the site of a World War One munitions dump. Dachau became the 'parent camp', the training ground for the horrors that would spread all across occupied Europe, from Greece in the south, to Norway in the north. The camp was established as a memorial site in 1965, and in the following forty years, a number of monuments were established in the grounds to honour the victims.

Entering the camp through the infamous "Arbeit Mach Frei" gate, which is actually a reconstruction of the original, I walk into the parade ground, where prisoners were made to stand to attention every morning and evening, sometimes for hours. To the right, the International Monument commemorates every victim of the Holocaust, the words 'Never Again' up in five different languages. A walk across the parade ground brings you to the reconstructed barracks, inside which wooden beds show the living standards endured by the prisoners. There were thirty-four barracks in total, although all the others are no longer standing, and are marked out by gravel. Running down the centre is an avenue, flanked by poplar trees, and beyond this the red-bricked crematorium and gas chamber, original and unaltered, stands outside the main perimeter and was called 'barrack X'. The whole site is a dark and disturbing experience, but for me it is this section that is the most sickening. The gas chamber was never actually used for mass murder at Dachau, however prisoner accounts confirm that it was used on small groups of people, and the crematorium was in constant use, especially towards the end of the war. Around the corner from this building is a grave to the unknown thousands - one of many memorials at the site - and a wall against which many Russian prisoners were executed. There's an atmosphere in the camp that I can't quite grasp; it's more peaceful than it is oppressive, more thoughtful than harrowing, but with a definite air of melancholy, a feeling that what has happened is done now, and the best way we can respond is to never let the memory be extinguished.

There are no words that can say what a visit to Dachau camp will do to you, and when I'm ready to leave, I do not know how to respond to the experience. I could easily fall to the ground and sob, or just sit pensively and stare off into space. As it happens, I do neither of these things, but simply walk back to the railway station feeling uncomfortably numb and empty. I know more about the Holocaust than many, but it is still beyond me how such evil could ever have been allowed, how such tyranny and hatred could ever have manifested itself in humanity. As a species, we are capable of such beauty and joy, and to think that the same species could commit such cold evil, is too difficult to comprehend, and is something I will never be able to understand. Visiting Dachau is not a pleasant experience - and it shouldn't be - but it is as necessary today as at any time in the last sixty years, and although I will never be able to put myself in the position of those victims of Nazi tyranny, I, and indeed all of us, have an obligation to ensure that such calculated evil never manifests itself in humanity again.

KZ Gedenkstatte Dachau - Dachau Concentration Camp - was liberated by US forces on the 29th of April, 1945.

The beautiful capital of Bavaria

2008-12-05T12:20:00.000Z

I arrive in Munich following a delightful train journey through the heart of Germany, hills decked in the beautiful reds, oranges, and yellows of autumn. I am immediately struck by the quiet and relaxed atmosphere of the city, the way nobody is rushing, or leaning on their car horns. In the city centre the Saturday shoppers are out in force, but quieter havens can be sought all over the town, and I make for the Hoffgarten - a garden arranged around a pavilion, from inside of which comes the sound of Mozart's 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik', wafting through the autumn air and drawing me closer. The violinist has quite an audience, and wandering elsewhere around the city, it doesn't take long to realise that Munichers are in awe of the great composer. Mozart visited Munich several times in his life, and wrote his lesser-known opera 'Idomeneo, re di Creta' for the 1780-81 carnival season in the city. Beyond Mozart, the atmosphere in Munich is cultural and sophisticated, the perfect place to relax, and to absorb some of the beautiful architecture. The Neues Rathaus - the new town hall - dominates the main square, Marienplatz, whilst the city's cathedral - the Frauenkirche - nestles in the backstreets, its twin towers poking out over the city's rooftops. I can't help but fall in love with Munich, and can only imagine how idyllic it would be when the Christmas markets come to town, with their hog roasts, mulled wine, and traditional Bavarian decorations.

I'm only in Munich for two days, but if I could take just one memory away from the city, it would have to be the magical half hour I spend in the shop Max Krug, purveyors of cuckoo clocks, beersteins, Bavarian ornaments, and nutcrackers. Stepping into the shop, you'd believe it is permanently Christmas, and the colour of the nutcracker display is almost breathtaking. They come in all shapes and sizes; there are kings, soldiers, pirates, woodsmen, a staggering variety that amounts to hundreds, stacked carefully onto the shelves. I have my favourites, but they're a little out of my price-range, so I settle for a little wooden smoker, a traditional souvenir and a treasured memento from my time in the the Bavarian capital.

(bottom photo: courtesy of Max Krug, www.max-krug.com)

Frogs and ethnography

2008-12-04T00:55:00.003Z

My final day in the German capital takes me to the far south of the city, to a region called Dahlem, which contains one of Berlin's best museum complexes, housing many ethnographic artefacts from around the world. The museums are located on the university campus, and apart from the odd academic, deep in discussion with a colleague, I have the whole place more-or-less to myself. I begin in the Museum of Asian Art, which contains a beautiful model of a pagoda from India, carved out of wood, and with an intricate elephant on each corner. There are stone Budda statues, Chinese wall carvings, and a lovely scroll depicting the life of an Emperor in some detail, only a portion of which is on display, the rest being tightly rolled up on each side. Moving to the other side of the hall, I come to the Museum of Ethnography, which has a magnificent collection of South and Mesoamerican artefacts. I love the Incan stone pillars, the Mayan idols, and the Moche ceramics, which are so full of character that it incredible to think that they are over 1,500 years old. But of all the artefacts, my favourite is a small frog, made of stone, and carved by somebody of the Maya civilization in Central America. The mystery of what it means or represents only adds to its appeal for me, and as is so often the case with the Maya, the answers will never be known. Maybe it's a tribute to a frog deity, an offering to ensure a favourable harvest or to ward off destructive weather. As there's no right or wrong answer, feel free to make your own suggestion!

Unfortunately, the majority of the next exhibition, on the South Seas, is closed for emergency repairs, so I leave the museum and head back to the city. As hard as it is to believe, my time in Berlin has already come to and end, and tomorrow I will be taking a train south to an altogether different city. I will be leaving behind a modern, forward-thinking city, undoubtedly the most important city in Germany, and a heavyweight of Europe. In Berlin I see a city with a very unique history, dominated by the last one hundred years, and I see a city that is still something of a building site - there are cranes and redevelopment everywhere. It certainly lacks the beauty and atmosphere of Amsterdam, but what I instead take away is a monumental sense of history, and a perception of identity that both embraces the future, whilst acknowledging and dealing with the past. It is for this that I'm most glad I came to Berlin, to see the wall, the checkpoint, the memorials, the very centre of turbulence and political upheaval in Europe and the world for most of the last century. That's the Berlin I will remember. That, and a small stone frog!

Travels in the Animal Kingdom

2008-12-03T13:50:00.004Z

Having dabbled in a lot of human culture and history in the last week or so, I decide to try something entirely different today, and head for Berlin's zoologischer garten. It's rated as one of the best zoos in the world, with over 12,000 animals and 1,400 different species. The most amazing thing about the zoo is that they have done away with cages and tall fences, and have instead employed a ditch and moat system, keeping the animals in, whist making it feel much more spacious and natural. This enhances the entire experience, and at the grizzly bear enclosure, I squint a little, and try to pretend there's nothing between me and the docile creature eyeing me.

There are actually so many animals at the zoo, it's hard to know where to begin. The big cats are beautiful, as are the giraffes, wolves, elephants, and rhinos, but the undoubted star of the zoo is Baubau, the giant panda. I make a point of dropping by as he is being fed, and he sits just like a person, picking up pieces of fruit with a giant paw, and munching on them in a way that makes the crowd fall instantly in love with him. After Baubau I see camels, bison, zebras, hyenas, and Nile crocodiles, which you view from a small footbridge just six feet above their swimming lake, in a specially made reptile building. At first this doesn't seem like such a big adventure, as all the crocodiles look quite small, and it is only when I turn around and see the size of the adults, that I realise why my guidebook says this is 'not for the timid'.

I leave the zoo with my feet aching, having wandered the grounds for hours, and were it not for the zoo closing for the day, I would probably stay well into the evening. Back outside, it seems almost impossible that such a large area of greenery, and such a huge collection of exotic animals, could exist in the middle of the city, and the relaxed atmosphere of the zoo is so suddenly replaced by the manic rush-hour bustle of Kurfurstendamm, that it is something of a shock to the system. Still, if travel has taught me anything already, it's to go with the flow, and as tired as my legs are, I find myself being swept along with the crowd, my visit to the zoo all but a dream already. I suppose that's Berlin for you; fast, noisy, and as uncompromising as any other capital city in the world. And for some reason - for some crazy, nonsensical reason - I love every minute of it!

Cold War tourism

2008-12-01T22:03:00.000Z

In April 1945, the Soviet Union buried five thousand of its soldiers in a mass grave at Treptower Park, in eastern Berlin. After the war ended, a huge Soviet memorial was constructed at the site, and it's here that I begin today's Cold War themed tour of the city. Following the path through a stone archway, you come to two massive red marble gateways, each flanked by a statue of a kneeling soldier. Beyond these is the large open square, lined on each side by stone slabs, depicting scenes from the struggle for Berlin, and I particularly like the scene of a line of soldiers heading into battle, with the haunting face of Lenin hovering above them. Looking down on it all, a twelve-metre tall Soviet soldier holds a child in his left hand, and a sword in his right, which he has used to destroy a swastika, symbolising the defeat of Nazism. The monumentality of the site is magnificent, the atmosphere thought-provoking.

The Soviet Union, which was so pivotal in the liberation of Europe, would eventually turn from liberators to occupiers, and in 1961 they constructed the Berlin Wall, which would change the city and its identity forever. I arrive at the Eastside Gallery, not knowing where to go or what to expect. I spot a long, chronically vandalised wall, go to investigate, and then I am there, walking along the very boundary of Western civilization. The sense of history is very much present at the wall, and I try to picture myself walking along it in the 1960's, wondering, perhaps even shuddering, about activities on the other side. This is where east versus west was at its most intense, and the saddest part of all is that this wall did not divide two different nations; it divided one city, and one people, from themselves. Wandering up the wall, I step back at various points to examine the art work and the graffiti. One statement reads 'no more wars, no more walls, a united world', whilst another section depicts images from Picasso's Guernica, painted up in red, black, and yellow, and is labelled 'Buerlinica' - a brilliant take on the world's most famous anti-war work of art.

Leaving the Berlin Wall behind me, I head for another famous landmark of the Cold War - Checkpoint Charlie. A control hut has been reconstructed in the middle of the road, and is manned by an American soldier when I arrive, although his German accent betrays the fact that he's actually an actor. Above the pavement, the famous sign reads "You are now leaving the American sector", whilst the flags of Britain, France, the United States, and the Soviet Union hang down from the surrounding buildings. It intrigues me that such a turbulent part of German history has managed to become a major tourist draw for the city, and there is no shortage of visitors looking to have their photo taken with the soldiers of the checkpoint. Perhaps it's more of an attraction to younger people, who didn't live through the days of division, and I wonder what older Berliners think about it.

Going via the Topographie des Terrors, an outdoor gallery on the site of the Gestapo and SS headquarters which chronicles the crimes committed by the Nazis, I end the day at Pariser Platz, home of the Brandenburg Gate, and the symbol of German - and in a sense European - reunification. There's a buzz around the square in the early evening, as both young and old are out for sightseeing, parties, and gentle strolls, and the mellow guitar music coming from under the gate fits the place perfectly. This is the Europe of atmosphere, and I could stay wrapped in the soft Pariser Platz blanket forever, so beautiful is the evening, so gentle is the mood. I watch as two mock soldiers - an American and a Soviet - take turns to have their photo taken in front of the gate. And for some reason, that seems like the perfect way to end the day.

The icons of history

2008-11-30T20:09:00.001Z

I'm reluctant to leave Amsterdam, which I find charming and beautiful, and as I set off on the morning train eastward, I am well aware of the challenge that lays ahead. Berlin, capital of Germany, and European economic powerhouse, has a population about five times that of Amsterdam, and whilst everything can be easily negotiated on foot in the Dutch capital, Berlin's size requires the extensive use of public transport. Nonetheless, there is something drawing me to Berlin that I don't think I would find in quite the same way anywhere else.

For me, nowhere is more iconic of twentieth century political history than Berlin. The very epicenter of the European power-struggle for much of the last hundred years, Berlin has emerged as a leading economic and cultural city, forward-thinking and modern, and yet acutely aware of its past. History is everywhere; it's at the fernsehturm, the massive television tower erected by the East German government to highlight the triumph of East Berlin. It's at the Reichstag, the center of German government, most famous for the mysterious fire in 1933, that is widely believed to have been a Nazi ploy to arrest and imprison communists. And it's at the Brandenburg Gate, the symbol of the city's division in the latter part of the last century.

History is, however, at perhaps its most poignant at the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedachtniskirche, the ruins of a nineteenth century church at the top of Berlin's famous street, Kurfurstendamm. The church was bombed out during raids by the RAF during the Second World War, leaving the shattered remains of the tower, which locals have nicknamed the 'hollow tooth'. It's a near-miracle that so many of the beautiful mosaics inside the church have survived so well intact, and although the cracks betray the strain of war, the interior is rather breathtaking, and totally unexpected. For a British visitor in particular, there is another reason to step inside the church, for amongst the exhibits and information boards, a small cross is given pride of place. This is the Coventry Crucifix, forged from old nails that were found in the ruins of Coventry Cathedral, and donated to the church as an offering of peace and reconciliation. A touching gesture of friendship, after a time of great difficulty.

Just across the road from the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedachtniskirche is the official shop of football club Hertha Berlin, the city's premier team. I toy with buying a scarf, but instead make a spontaneous decision to spend the afternoon in search of the stadium. It isn't difficult to find, in fact it has it's own S-Bahn station, and for a four euro ticket, I have the freedom to roam around the stadium, and go anywhere except onto the pitch. At any football stadium this would be fun, but at Berlin's Olympiastadion, the whole experience is made much more special because of the ground's tremendous history. The stadium was built for the 1936 Olympic Games, awarded to Germany in an attempt to bring international cooperation to an increasingly hostile Nazi regime, and the entire complex is constructed in typically fascistic style. The aryan statues dotted around the complex are a reminder of Nazi ideology, and a close examination of the Olympic bell, on display outside the ground, reveals the Nazi swastika. For me, however, the most symbolic part of the stadium is the Olympic winners plaque at the end of the ground where, at the top of the list, is the name of American athlete Jesse Owens. Whether or not he was actually snubbed by Hitler is still a hotly debated issue, but his success nonetheless brought Nazi ideology to the forefront of debate, and to the world's attention. For the time being, however, the world would remain silent...

The new musketeers

2008-11-29T22:46:00.004Z

On one of my many strolls through the centre of Amsterdam, I come across a brilliant new take on Rembrandt's famous painting, The Night Watch. At Rembrandtplein, twenty two bronze figures from the painting stand proudly to attention, courtesy of Russian artists Alexander Taratynov and Mikhail Dronov, who brought the painting into three-dimensional life in 2006. What an amazing and unique work of modern art, and a fantastic tribute to the seventeenth century painter that Amsterdamers still call 'The Master'.

A dreadful past, a hopeful future

2008-11-28T01:25:00.007Z

In May 1940, eight months after the outbreak of World War II, neutral Holland was invaded by Nazi Germany. The city of Rotterdam was heavily bombed, and to avoid further destruction elsewhere - most notably to the Hague and historic Amsterdam - the Dutch government surrendered, and a Nazi civilian government was established, based in Amsterdam. It wasn't long before the Nazi government turned their attention towards the Jewish population in the city, forcing Dutch Jews to wear the yellow star of David, and deporting groups to concentration camps. For the Jews in Amsterdam, there was nothing to do, and no means of escape. But in 1942, one incredible family, and one amazing young girl, went into hiding in the very centre of the city.

I arrive at 263 Prinsengracht on a cold, grey, drizzly day, to see the house where Anne Frank and her family hid from Nazi oppression for over two years, before being betrayed and arrested, and finally deported to concenration camps in 1944. You prepare yourself for a moving experience, but the museum will still get through to your emotions, and amongst the crowds there are some red eyes and sniffly noses. Take a look around the complex, and try to understand that this is where eight people lived for two years, not out of choice but necessity, and not for fun, but to save their own lives. I try to think of how it would be if it was my family, but the thought is too much for me, beyond my ability to comprehend, and too upsetting to contemplate for long. The visit is a reminder to us all of the fragility of life, and the grave injustices that humanity can undertake against itself. For me, we can take two consolations from this; firstly, that Hitler did not win, and that the memory of Anne Frank and her family - and the millions they represent - will not be forgotten. Secondly, we must use this as a lesson, so that such atrocities will never again be committed. This is what Anne Frank's father Otto, who was the only one of the group to survive the Holocaust, campaigned for until his death in 1980. In this regard, the Anne Frank Museum is more than memorial to the teenage girl and her fellow victims of Nazism; It is a beacon of hope, a place not just to remember the past, but to consider the future, so that the lessons of history are put into practice for a better world.

I leave the Anne Frank House and head back out into the drizzly cold, to wander the canals of the Jordaan and escape to my own company for a while. The museum has left me very contemplative and very homesick, and yet I know it's the most important visit I will make during my time in Amsterdam.

A morning with Vincent...

2008-11-27T22:42:00.002Z

Fresh and fully recovered from the previous evening's football, I make my way to the Van Gogh Museum, housing one of the most comprehensive collections of the painter's works, amassed by his brother Theo. It's the colour that hits you first, and stays in your mind the longest. Then, the vibrancy of the pieces, the bold brightness of the paintings that leap out at you, masking the tragedy that befell Vincent's life. The gallery portrays the works beautifully, beginning with the early years, and following Van Gogh's life chronologically. Highlights include the famous Sunflowers, Self-portrait as an Artist, and Bedroom at Arles which, funnily enough, is also up on my bedroom wall at home.

From what I can tell of the Dutch art world, Rembrandt is considered the most favourite and famous artist amongst the Dutch - they call him 'the master', and references to him can be found all over Amsterdam - but if Van Gogh should play second fiddle, he does play a very good tune. He is certainly my favourite, and after visiting the museum, I am all the more moved for him. Van Gogh said he wanted to make his mark on humanity through the joy and life of his works. Shortly before he shot himself, he declared that he was a failure, and that fate meant he could never be anything else. If only Vincent could have lived to see the joy and emotion his paintings now bring to so many people.

Leaving European art behind me for a while, I make for the lesser-known Tropenmuseum, which exhibits an outstanding ethnographic collection of art and artefacts from tropical regions around the world. I only have three hours to see it all, which one would expect to be plenty of time, but the collections are so varied and beautifully arranged, I would be happy spending an entire day there alone. Favourites for me include a Phillipino Jeepny, so over-the-top and colourful that it could only be made in Asia, a model of a 'soul boat', believed to transport souls to the after-world, and a series of figurines commemorating a Mexican wedding, complete with flamboyant hats! Every tropical region of the world is represented, from tribal societies to modern city living, and the result is museum jam-packed with fascinating exhibits.

Talking of fascinating exhibits, does anybody want to have a guess as to the meaning of this Tropenmuseum artefact?

Out and about in Amsterdam

2008-11-26T23:09:00.004Z

The Dutch passion for flowers is probably unrivalled anywhere on the planet, and no more is this displayed so vibrantly and beautifully than at Amsterdam's Bloemenmarkt - the flower market. I arrive following a morning visit to the cute Amsterdam Historisch Museum, and am immediately captivated by the colours and the sheer size of the selection. Tulips are the flower of choice here, and they are beautiful, but I think my favourite flowers are the giant sunflowers, standing proudly above all the others, truly brightening up the displays. I partly love these flowers because of their immense and simplistic beauty, but mostly because they are the only sun I have seen all day; Amsterdam, it seems, is in rainy season. You can linger in the flower market all day, six days a week, and you just couldn't get bored watching the visitors - tourists and locals alike - smelling roses and choosing bulbs. It must be one of the best free ways to spend your time in the Dutch capital. But for me, as much as I enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells of the market, I have to get going. Tonight, I have a date with Marco Van Basten.

Well, I tell a lie. Van Basten is definitely there, but I can't see him very well and he certainly hasn't noticed me. This isn't a great surprise though, as the Amsterdam ArenA holds over fifty thousand spectators, and although I would love to meet the legendary Dutch footballer in person, I'm more than happy to sit back and watch one of Europe's most famous football teams in action. The match I've chosen is AFC Ajax's first round UEFA Cup match against FK Borac, a Serbian side who I have to admit, I have never heard of before. The stadium itself is world-class, comfortable, clean, and with an unobstructed view from every seat in the ground. It's only half-full at kick-off time, but that doesn't seem to detract from the atmosphere, as the crowds bob up-and-down, chanting and waving over-sized flags, whilst on the field Ajax strut their stuff - they are 4-1 ahead from the first leg after all - and the match takes on something of a party atmosphere. At the beginning of the second half, someone even manages to let off a flare, and the smoke wafts across the stands and into my face, so there can be no mistaking that this is football on the continent. An amazing and atmospheric evening is capped off perfectly by two second-half goals from the home team, and at the final whistle there can be no mistaking that Ajax have swaggered into the second round.

I will always be a little curious as to how I ended up at a different metro station from the one I arrived at earlier in the evening, but one thing's for certain; following the crowds is the only way to go. They're all singing, dancing, and chanting at the station, and the trains back to the city centre are rocking too and fro with over-exuberance, as Ajax fans extend the party to way after the final whistle. And boarding the train with them, these happy Amsterdamers, Ajax scarf wrapped around my neck, I find it impossible not to be affected by the atmosphere. I may be only three days out of England, but tonight I feel as though I am one of them, such is the power of football, and the power of Amsterdam.