ROLO's roots

The original Lakeland Terrier was bred in the Lake District. They were bred to fight the giant Westmoreland Fox, which was the greatest threat to farmers’ chickens and livestock, particularly the lambs. The Lakie should have a narrow chest about the same width as its head, so it can scoot down burrows to grab the fox cubs. Proudly displaying its bottom sticking out of the ground ready for a farmer to pull him out by his tail, ‘Good boy’.

A Lakeland Terrier’s coat must be warm and waterproof, full of curls and strong wiry hair. Imagine a coat that let in the whipping wind and rain off the fells, it would be a death sentence for a working dog in the north of England. The breed also had to have game – that’s spirit to attack even when they’re of a smaller size than their prey treading that fine line between courage and stupidity.

ROLO is part Lakeland Terrier and part Patterdale Terrier. Both breeds originate from the region we went to on a family holiday around the astonishingly beautiful Lake Windermere. I had no idea England had lakes and mountains like these, it made me feel like I could have been in Canada or Switzerland (both places which I have also never visited).

On the first day where there was no rain and low sun ROLO pondered the Lakes. She sniffed the air and rushed through the damp undergrowth of lush ferns, chasing scents and running wild. She had returned to her roots. However, her paw hurt. That night while she was conked out on the dog bed, I removed a tiny stone from her paw leaving a hole.

The next day the forecast looked clear, but we encountered strong winds as we climbed a moor then scrabbled down a fell into woodland. ROLO’s paws were constantly cold and wet from the mud and hard granite. The sheer number of puddles ROLO had to jump over to avoid getting drenched grazed more skin off her paws. At night I cleaned the wound with saline solution while she and her compatriot, Mac the Bedlington Terrier Whippet Cross, snoozed in front of the fire. 

The next day we ventured into Grizedale, which in Old Norse means Wild Boar Valley, where it rained pretty much all day. I had forgotten my canine’s coat, so ROLO progressively became sodden and shivery; unlike her ancestors her fur was not wiry enough. On another walk the loose jagged rocks underfoot had got too much for her and she had to be carried. At one point I looked round and found her sat with eyes half-closed looking very wet and zen sheltering beneath a small bush.

Don’t get me wrong, at times ROLO looked majestic on the moors. Standing tall in the land of her working dog cousins. Remember, the Lakeland Terrier was bred to hunt the legendary Westmoreland Fox, which is now extinct thanks to her bloodline. But, as ROLO found out on the walking holiday, it forever rains in the Lakes and she is a dog that likes to stay dry.

In London she is a pub dog, who sits on people’s laps while they quaff beer and discuss politics. She rides on public transport, gazing out of the top deck window of a bus while it careens around the busy streets of the metropolis. ROLO has a dog bed in every house and workplace she visits, which are all well-insulated establishments that hold the possibility of treats. 

And ROLO realised that the city creature comforts she had grown so accustomed to like the sniffing of the butts on the common; the organic dog chews; her Summer and Winter dog wardrobe had led her life to be removed from that of her ancestors. And she felt pleasantly surprised that she was in fact a different dog to what she had been bred for, and she liked her life just the way it was, which made her tail wag.

Lakeland terrier history sources:

https://www.lakie1.com/history.php

https://nationalpurebreddogday.com/a-snippet-of-lakeland-terrier-history/

Orkney holiday & St Magnus Way

Dark stillness. Clambering off the ferry along the jetty you can hear large waters slapping against the hull of the big ship.

Granny is waiting with eager open arms when we arrive after midnight. My dad came to pick us up in Donkey, the name he’s affectionately given to the coffee cream coloured car with a dented nose.

You awake and the scenery outside the window is bright blue glass, the sky is shale, and the light is golden champagne.

I had expected there to be lashing rain outside, but the barometer in the corridor is hoping for light winds as I tap it gently hopeful too, its hand ticking further away from thunder.

We walk the St Magnus Way from Evie to Birsay.

St Magnus Way route marker

I have the disposable camera that Noemi gave me to take photos of our trip to Orkney and snap one at the bay of Gurness. (The un-real tropical blue of the shallow waters cutting into the verdant green of the hillside won’t be captured on film.)

St Magnus was an Earl of Orkney in 1106. A pacifist in comparison to his contemporary warring Earls and Fiefs and because of this, his cousin Earl Haakon, ordered him to be killed on the island of Egilsay across the bay. Instead of being beheaded like a common thief the axe struck a blow in the middle of his head splitting it apart. 

Legend says that the ground where his blood was spilled turned into luscious green pasture. And Gurness means green headland in Old Norse. His hallowed body was carried along Orkney in a procession and the pilgrimage is said to follow this route.

There’s an ancient Orkney tradition where the body of a deceased person is not allowed to touch the ground, so there are many attested resting places (large stones) for St Magnus’ body dotted all over the island called Mansie Stones – however – none remain, and the evidence is patchy. 

The way I like all pilgrimages is to follow the scent of something sacred. You don’t want a historical route with coordinates and information centres. That would give the game away – why would you want to do something so ordinary and official? No, I’m chasing saints! Mixed in with folklore and miracles. 

At Grugar we disturbed a colony of seals basking in the sun, as we dropped down on to the flat rocks strewn with seaweed. I watched them scoot off inelegantly in their blubber suits making a splash. 

Grugar by the roost

Across a turbulent stretch of tidal waters called the “roost” there is the uninhabited island of Eynhallow, which in Old Norse means Holy Island. The ruins of a medieval stone church remain which people say was once a monastery.

Orcadians also say that the Finfolk used to live there. These nomadic sea-dwelling sorcerers who were prone to abducting mortal men and women to become their Finmen and Finwives. Two stories relating to the Finfolk of Eynhallow piqued my interest.

1. This small island was one of the invisible islands of Orkney where the Finfolk resided. The island was said to have been eventually consecrated and captured by a vengeful farmer named the Goodman of Thorodale, after his bonnie bride was stolen infront of his very eyes by a strong dark Finman rowing out on a boat. Thorodale had to go through a quest of labours to gain the sight to see the invisible island. After nine full moons of waiting and watching the sea, he saw it one morning and rowed determinedly to the mythical island carrying bags of salt with him, chucking it at the demonic sea creatures and mermaids who appeared to protect the island from him. They failed. He succeeded and Christianity prevailed banishing the Finfolk from their home forever.

2. In 1990 a boat with eighty-eight tourists embarked on the island to look at the ruins of the church. When it was time to return only eighty-six tourists got back on the boat. The police were called and there was an air-search, and the coastguards were notified. The two missing people were never found and the crew were blamed for miscounting. However, the crew were sure there were eighty-eight people who got on the boat and so, it was assumed they were Finfolk returning to their own holy island home. 

For the love of England

First run of the year. Running up the hill being chased by my dog, we run parallel until I am an inch ahead of her then she races ahead leaving me in her tail’s trail.

I have been away a lot recently, traversing the country. I have seen sea, tilled fields, rocky cliffs. Once I found myself staying in a fairy tale place with a stone castle stood in the middle of the village. It dates back to the time of early Christendom and is contemporaneous with the Tower of London, I was told. Now a ruin on an escarpment; sturdy, thick-walled, held together by clods of flint. You couldn’t bulldoze it, but it has been worn down over millennia by forgetfulness. 

Some entrepreneurial agriculturalists used its fortified plains of grass to graze their sheep. People looted the castle remains for building materials. Feudal systems waned, industrialisation peaked, people got replaced by other people and they forgot why the castle was built.

ROLO accompanied us on all these journeys to bygone picturesque places around England. We walked as a pack along the white cliffs of Dover. I kept her on a leash as one unflappable guide at the lighthouse at the end of our walk told us a dog ran off the side of a cliff only the other day. No fences. Not at a National Trust site – where talk of carving a giant bust of Vera Lynn was met with grand disdain – for the love of conservation!

Last weekend I found myself staying in the middle of a field in a tastefully converted ginormous farmhouse. Nothing for miles apart one tractor working its engine off. Tilling the land with heavy machinery. Couldn’t think of anything I had less knowledge of. I met a boy that day wearing a T-shirt with a tractor design on its front, and I couldn’t be sure, but these were my only two touchpoints to tractors. Tractors as a symbol for something like toys? Big cars? Horses? And then an actual tractor (with me watching it move slowly across the landscape) hurling piles and piles of dusty earth in its wake. 

What was it doing? I asked the Uncle of the family horde. He said it was probably churning fertiliser into the ground. Oh right, I said. From that point I couldn’t even extrapolate what happened next. Does it have to rain for the fertiliser to work? What then grows? How long does it take? Basically, what steps need to take place before the fruit/veg appear on the shelves of Tesco? I couldn’t tell you. So, experiencing the real tractor in life made me question food supply chains and reminded me of the rising cost of living. How milk now is £1.10 and I swear it was 90p quite recently. Maybe this is just London prices and milk goes up arbitrarily like the cost of pints. I wondered then whether the alt-milk movement was pushing up the price of milk as there was less demand.

I was glad that family weekend offered much free booze and many distracting conversations otherwise my city brain might not have coped. ROLO was also put in kennels for this episode, so I yearned for her whilst the others tempered my flurry of emotions and told me she was having a good time playing with other dogs. Making new dog friends. I texted the kennel owner – Ronnie and he texted back saying she was ‘very nervous’. My extended family are very kind to me.  I’ve learned from watching them and being amongst them that love knows no limits. 

My Canterbury Pilgrimage

In the summer of 2021,

I undertook a pilgrimage from London to Canterbury with three friends and a dog.

You can read my account of it here via an ArcGis Story Map: https://arcg.is/15q1CS0

There's pictures and interactive maps too. 

https://arcg.is/15q1CS0

Southwark Cathedral

I’m thinking back to my first jab. Such are life events these days: weddings, funerals, first and second jabs. I’d booked mine at London Bridge Guy’s Hospital. My best friend Will (of the same age and near enough postcode) was also getting his vaccination the same morning as me, so we’d decided to meet up for a drink on the Southbank afterwards.

I got out of Guy’s Hospital earlier than Will, so I walked over to Borough Market. I didn’t fancy a delicious, overpriced coffee just yet. I strolled on over cobbled streets, under damp arches, smelling the faint ammonia and salt-breeze wafting off the Thames. 

I arrived at a lovely old building with sandy-coloured stone walls crumbling at the edges. Bright in the soft daylight, not like the muddied grey of elsewhere reminding me of a limp sponge. I made my way to the entrance. Southwark Cathedral. I had never been inside. 

I bowed my head automatically when I went through the doors. I notice I do that when I enter sacred spaces – has it been ingrained in me from Shinto shrines and the general bowing culture of Japan? You bow to show respect and humility. And I am humbled by ancient lore and spiritual sediment left behind. Old places filled with meaning is what I’m about.

The inside of the cathedral looked shiny. The stained-glass windows were clear and new, not even crazed. The stone floor tiles were smooth and uncracked, however, there was a weightiness in the alcoves. For such a large space it felt like the air was closed-off, as if we were in a vacuum. 

I checked my phone for messages from Will, but my signal had dropped. I padded around the perimeter taking in the high-relief engravings, plaques mentioning recent war, late kings, old territories. I wish I knew what stories the stained-glass windows told. 

I had walked to the very end of the chapel; if this had been a ship I would’ve been at the helm. A tannoy-speaker switched on and a woman’s voice broke the silence. ‘Hello. I am the Reverend of Southwark Cathedral. I will now say a prayer. If you can, please take a moment to stand or sit for contemplation.’

There were some empty chapel chairs in my vicinity, so I shuffled towards one and took a lonesome seat. Looming above me was one enormous stained-glass window tinted in deep blue hues, cherry reds and shafts of marigold yellow.

She spoke of wishing to curtail the virus. She spoke of wanting the vaccine to work and giving people the security, they so needed. She asked us to remember those left behind and to hope for better days. 

I was staring up at this colourful vibrant light streaming through the glass and I cried. I sniffled at the beauty of the way. I had been grieving my mother’s death all this time inside my head, I knew about it, thoughts constantly whirring whilst sitting at work, staring at screens, clicking irrevocably. All I required was a few stolen minutes, the kind of clarity you get when you smoke a cigarette. Surprisingly, this had not happened until I was sat in a church caught in a prayer.  

It might have clicked then, that what I wanted was a reason to move my body without my brain having to think. I wanted to give the relationship with my mother some breathing room. A pilgrimage. Treading a path often tread would give me a way out – an excuse! 

(I mean I deleted Instagram, as if that required any excuse although someone did ask, ‘why did you delete Insta?’ ‘too much rubbish to scroll through’. I don’t have the emotional energy for that, I’ve lost my mother, I cannot stomach seeing your focaccia.)

The prayers were over. I was given back to myself. I stood up and felt like I should bow but I didn’t and ambled through the cloisters. I checked my phone: two missed calls from Will. I went out past the Gift Shop to return the calls. ‘Where are you? I’m out of the hospital.’ ‘Cool, I’m at Southwark Cathedral. Come find me.’

Epilogue: Tomorrow, Saturday 21st August 2021, I am setting off on my pilgrimage. Me, my dog and two good friends will start from Southwark Cathedral and walk for ten days to Canterbury Cathedral. To be continued. 

 

Breathtaken

 

I decided to walk to the end of the island. 

 

It’s funny I had never thought of doing this before. Happy with the idea of being able to see the beautiful views of Orkney through my window, or equally happy to get in the car and drive to a scenic spot, I hadn’t ever considered walking out of the front door and continuing. 

 

There is one road that goes through Burray. It curves all the way round the island and if you’re in a car shoots off to one of the two neighbouring islands in the archipelago. But if you’re on foot the road doesn’t have to curve, and it doesn’t remain a main road either. It turns into a single track and goes on straight over a very low undulating hill. 

 

I had a dog with me so I felt there was more purpose to my walk, although I’m sure if you were a seasoned rambler you wouldn’t think twice about it. Walking a dog gets me out of awkward situations, like standing aimlessly outside a person’s garden as they hang their washing on the line. I can’t help worrying that if I didn’t have a dog the residents would think, ‘What is she doing up here?’

 

The rustle of my waterproof jacket and the clink of ROLO’s nametag on her collar added rhythm to my momentum.

 

As you walk further away from the main road and the pier, the sights and sounds fall away too. You start straining to look at things in the distance. The cluster of houses on the opposite island, South Ronaldsay, look like a quaint fishing village from a time of sepia photographs. The number of telegraph poles lessen until you look up and spot a single one with four thick wires, each extending to a lone house. 

 

The old houses are bungalows. Low and squat to the ground to withstand the battering wind. There are barely any trees in Orkney, so there’s nothing to break the horizon when you take in the scenery with a sweeping gaze. Flat as a pebble. I can clearly see the hills of Orphir on the mainland as if I were looking through a telescope. Picking out details like walking trails and telephone masts – or am I making it up and my eyes are filling in the blanks of the maroon dark hills. 

 

Unused to seeing anything that far away I begin to doubt what’s real. 

 

There is nothing between sea and sky apart from us.

 

You’d think the breath-taking views are the thing that takes your breath away. It’s not. It’s the quiet. I stop walking and it’s totally quiet – so I stop breathing. A seagull glides in the air and falls back, like a film that’s dropped its decibels down to zero to add weight to its frames. 

 

When a bird chirrups it’s like a phone ringing. 

When a cow moos it’s like a dinner gong. 

Suddenly you’re aware you are breathing and it’s the loudest thing on earth. 

 

The wind stopped for a second and I was engulfed by my own sound, the rushing of blood and body heat to a degree which makes me think I am never sensationally aware of my existence. It’s shocking. I braced myself; I missed the banal buzz of beings; clung onto the sound of the city for safety, but it felt goddam sacred too.

 

I plodded on escaping from the sound of myself into the wind and up hill, hell bent on reaching the end of the island. Maybe I would see a selkie? I got up the gravel path but was impeded by a tractor parked at the end where a big man was getting out of its cab. 

 

The farmer had stopped beside a field where another man was strolling towards him. They both looked similar. Big rubber boots, heavyset bodies, sweat-browned faces, dried mud mingled with hay on their trousers. They looked weather-worn and comfortable.

 

The man who’d left his tractor sidled up to the fence where his friend now stood leaning over it with both arms. I turned and headed back catching their opening conversation, which chimed through the silence at the far edges of this island.

 

-       I’d thought you’d died. You’ve growan a beerd an’ evry’in.

 

-       Aye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dog walkers

When you leave through the front door with an eager dog at the end of your leash, the whole world opens up like a fair ground. There are things to smell at every street curb, scraps to grab and be yanked away from, chicken bones collected in corners that need to be pulled out from between gnashers. All hell breaks loose out there on the street. 

My dog ROLO is extremely friendly and naïve. She’ll see a dog about a mile away and sit down patiently wagging her tail waiting to be greeted, while the dog and walker go out of view without noticing us. She bounds towards cats thinking they are funny dogs, and even though one time she was scratched by an arching hissing cat, she still excitedly yelps and runs towards them.

She’ll want to play with barking unfriendly dogs who want to eat her face, but she’ll fall back and go in for more expecting a different welcome each time. Even the owners of scary dogs are bemused at her trusting nature. 

That’s something I hadn’t expected from dog ownership – the amount of small talk you exchange with other dog walkers.

Frazzled Bishon Frise

‘Watch out for ‘at small ginger one up’der. Bit my dog and he’s never been the same again.’

‘Oh really? Where do they live?’

‘Two ‘ouses up that way.’

Stalwart salivating Rottweiler

‘My dog’s blind… You’ll have to get closer if you want her to know you’re there.’

‘She’s got such a good nature.’

‘That’s right she’s always wanted puppies of her own. The light-touch maternal type.’ 

Nonchalant German Shepherd

‘Yeah she’s good with puppies – not small yappy dogs. She’ll take it in her stride and let them jump all over her.’

‘Sorry my dog is so in her face.’

‘Nah it’s fine that’s the way little puppies say hello. I heard it’s because of somethink like regurgitation of mother dogs. Like they’re used to licking their mum’s mouth for getting’ food, or somethink.’

We moved house during lockdown and by the time we come out of lockdown (again), ROLO has made more friends in the neighbourhood than us. And I know the names of all these dogs but not their owners, that would go against all dog-walker etiquette. You ask the breed and name of the dog, then perhaps its age and comment about the dog’s appearance or positive behaviour. Then you try and remember that dog’s name for next time when you meet them in the street and you can say very friendly and confidently, ‘Hello ROLO!’ so their tail starts wagging and they jump up to say hello. 

You steer clear of dogs with muzzles and owners who pass you by giving you a wide berth. Usually, the people keeping their dogs under control are standing still on a bank or side of the road, because they know that mid-movement it’s harder to hold a big dog back. They don’t make eye contact but look admonishingly at your dog, waiting for you to pass without any altercations. 

Highly strung English Terrier

‘Dogs are expensive these days they’re going for silly money!’

‘Yeah.’

‘How much did yours cost? Mine was £1,500 and I had to drive 200 miles to go get him. My sat-nav thought I’d gone wrong. When I got there – you couldn’t believe the conditions he was being bred in. My missus wanted to use the toilet and she came back looking upset. She said the floor was completely sticky with mess. The breeder right? had about twenty – thirty dogs in there, and to feed them right? he just placed this big bowl of food in the middle of the floor and they all went for it. Now can you believe that? He’s making good money from each of those dogs and keeping them living in filth. When I first got him home, he wouldn’t eat! He shit blood. I had to pay for medicines and everything. Glad he’s alright now, he’s a good dog. Good breed.’

Dopey loping Labrador

‘You’re training her off-leash are you?’

‘Sort of, we haven’t got re-call working fully yet.’

‘Mine’s a rescue you see, so she’s a little bit jittery. There was a time she was being walked by our old dog walker, Lucie, lovely girl very good, but you see she was walking a few dogs off-leash and there was a loud BANG and that set her off and she went off like a shot. No catching her or calling her back. She ran, do you know the church at Millfield? No? Well she ran up there and did a right at the sports field, carried on northwards to the army base that’s got property guardians in it now, do you know it? Turned left along one of the A-roads and went through a hole in a fence of a school yard and I tell you, if there hadn’t been a barrier up, she would have reached the M1! That poor girl Lucie crying down the phone to me and I said to her that there was nothing that she could have done to call the old girl back. It was good luck that people had seen her running across roads and reported it, otherwise we might never have found her at the rate she was going.’

And I don’t mind standing and chatting with them, hearing their ten-minute routine about their pet because we all have something in common, which is we dearly love our dogs. 

Bonfire night

The other night was bonfire night, which coincided with the beginning of lockdown 2.0. I went for a walk while explosions happened all around me in the sky. The evening air was still and smoky; it was like I’d walked back through a veil of time. How the lamp light filtered through the autumn leaves and was held by the smog reminded me of period dramas, like in The Crown when they fill a dampened room with fake smoke to give it that stale, liturgical look of old Britain. There was no one else on the street. A blacked-out Range Rover stealthily crept up beside me, before uneventfully rolling away, perhaps the driver was looking at the fireworks too. Shots rang out! Peals of fuchsia swerved up from behind a brick wall to crackle into sparks and fade out over a garden wall. There was a bottom-heavy moon that night and its creamy glow effused in contrast to the vivid smattering of lights.

Travels: Malaysia (Part 2)

Day 6. 18/4/19

Kuala Lumpur

Today was an early start as we were moving out of Melaka to Kuala Lumpur. Got up at 7:30am to have breakfast at a small Chinese-Malay restaurant by the side of the road near our hostel. The menu was limited and I didn’t know what anything was, so the woman who worked there gave us bowls of soup made of sweet soy stock containing lean pork meat and tofu. It was sweet, salty and tasted home-made. Freshly chopped chilli in soy sauce was dribbled on to a tiny plate to dip the pork in to. At Omni Hostel for the last time, we waited for a driver named Izad who never showed up, so we decided to get ourselves to Melaka Sentral to take a two hour coach ride to KL, no biggy.

While waiting for Izad I met a San-Franciscan who had been travelling for a few months and had ended up in Melaka. Her name was Linda, she had been adopted by her American parents as a baby from Vietnam, and now she was on a journey to find herself; her roots; her identity. She’d spent three months in Vietnam travelling solo until her tourist visa ran out, she couldn’t speak the language and didn’t know anyone – quite the bold move. I asked her whether she had taken a sabbatical from work. ‘No. I quit my job, I sold my house. I’m going to travel until my budget runs out, basically.’

Travelling in an air-conditioned box on wheels to Kuala Lumpur, I saw how the city enveloped us and was ginormous. The drop-off point was TBS (the central bus station) and as we were trying to figure out how to get to the main station, a ticket inspector-cum-railway official scooped us up. He gave us a colour photocopy of a metro map and took us to a balcony overlooking three railway tracks. It was still hot in the city, although of a different kind, an oppressive heat where there was no breeze, but you could get blasted by air-con every time you passed a sliding door. Pointing at the tracks he said, ‘This one is fast train to airport. This is slight-ly slower train. This takes you to KL Sentral, you want to take this.’

We headed across the concourse where people were busking, begging and selling fruit. The trains are of course, highly air-conditioned and riding in to KL for the first time was undoubtedly cool. It’s a real metropolis and seeing the Petronas Towers glinting in the sun was awesome. The Petronas Towers are Islamic architecture inspired skyscrapers, hence the shape of their spikes that look like minarets crafted in platinum shiny steel. The taxi from the station sped us around a busy and congested city – skyscrapers, causeways, not pedestrianised.

The place we were staying at was funnily enough called Platinum Face Suites, which was a hyper-modern tower block that was also a 5-star luxury hotel (I still don’t get the AirBnB set-up, it was likely dodgy, so best not question it) which came with an infinity pool on the roof. The elevator had 51 buttons for each floor and our room was on the 37^th. Yikes. Faux marble-top kitchen island, rose-gold statement-wall and floor to ceiling windows, from where you could see construction workers standing in the shell of another hotel being built opposite. A super impressive view nonetheless of KL’s blistering skyline. One odd sign hung on the polished wall saying ‘Be Happy’ in Cath Kidston style font, which really jarred with the minimalist psycho vibe of the room, though it gave a nod to the fact we were meant to be staying at a hostel.

I was mega hungry as we hadn’t eaten yet, so we got a Grab to an Indian restaurant. The driver was agile, dashing in and out of traffic jams during rush-hour, which in KL strikes at 3 o’clock he told us. We were dropped off outside a restaurant called IndianSpices Village. They laid out a huge banana leaf to use as a plate then served up an array of small dishes, each containing different sauces and curries, which were juicy and spicy and devourable, served with roti, poppadoms and rice. Heaven of flavours and textures. I ordered fried bittergourd that did not disappoint! Maybe the best bittergourd I’ve ever tasted - crispy, crunchy and bitter.

After gorging and cooling off in a/c we walked in to the muggy, polluted, metropolis atmosphere. From the main station we would take the KTM commuter train to the end of the blue line, to Batu Caves, where there is a large Hindu temple built in to the side of a mountain. You get tokens here instead of train tickets, like poker chips and as I was waiting for the train, I dropped mine out of my pocket. A nice woman held me gently by the arm to pass it back and I was left stunned; for not being used to close proximity or physical contact with strangers in London. She was simply being kind and that was the surprise.

When the train came, I immediately fell asleep because it was nice and cool, and I had a belly full of curry. I woke up at Batu Caves, the terminus. Here is a massive cave complex on the outskirts of the city where a Hindu temple has been built inside the rocks, with 272 bombastic, colourful steps leading up to it. There are monkeys who are unafraid of tourists picking up junk food everywhere. Up the flight of stairs I saw a monkey vomit in to his palm then fling it at some tourists who were climbing; I made eye contact with the monkey and he didn’t look guilty, only tired of life.

The monkeys were the highlight of the Batu Caves because the Hindu temple and statues inside it were sort of dilapidated and tacky at the same time. There were those aggressive purple strip lights you might see in a club, highlighting the ceiling and garishly painted peacock statues adorning rocks. Some of the temples had worshippers in, but mostly it was pigeons and people trying to entice tourists to buy a garland or get a white stamp on their forehead. There were also wild chickens and cockerels scraping at the ground. It’s much busier at pilgrimage and festival times, I hear, but when I was there it was empty. I did see an interesting statue of a blue god who had been grotesquely cut in half from head to waist by a sword.

Walking back down the steps you could see the smoggy heat haze off KL in the distance. I wanted to get back before nightfall, so I could get the most out of the rooftop pool with a view of the city. We departed the Batu Caves, passing by a turtle pond crammed full of them, where a vendor was throwing in stale bread. Got back on the train and arrived at the station, Dang Wangi, nearest to our Platinum Face Suites. We swung by a Seven Eleven on the way home and picked up banana leaves containing rice and chicken curry that you heat up in the microwave and an array of saccharine drinks.

Dressed for a swim, we hit the button for the 51^st floor where there was a luxury swimming pool, lit up from within to make the water glow azure. You could swim right up to the sheer edge where the water looks like it’s falling in to the city. The view of the city was wow. The glinting Petronas Towers were bang in the middle emanating a white light from its spires, and all the surrounding buildings glittered, while other skyscrapers showed-off multi-colour light displays. There were also a lot of hi-tech selfies going on in the pool, with much posing and torch flashes for front-lighting. One father was getting his photo taken by his entire family who acted as paparazzi. I took half a dozen photos for a model-esque group of friends, who were in the most fashionable swimwear that made each of them look like a Sailor Moon character, with their long legs and minuscule waists.

The rooftop infinity pool felt luxurious and ridiculous and I was already looking forward to seeing more countryside. That night we went back to our en suite room with a skyline view and had a bath, then slept soundly until the morning, when again we would be on the move.

Day 7. 19/4/19

Cameron Highlands

It was a hot and dry walk leaving Platinum Face Suites across tarmac roads with cars whizzing by to reach the metro. First thing’s first, I had to get breakfast, so I found a food court in KL Sentral station. I had a big bowl of curry mee noodle soup, which was both creamy and spicy and an ice matcha latte that was insanely sweet and tasted a bit like melon (that could have been why it was so green – maybe it was melon flavoured and not matcha.) The sugar rush helped us find a phone shop, where we got hold of a Malaysian sim card for my Nokia banana-phone, which was way cheaper than paying for roaming charges. Smart moves.

From TBS bus station we got the next ticket available to the Cameron Highlands. It would be a four hour journey so I stocked up on snacks and got comfy. The ride went by relatively quickly. When the bus started winding up mountain roads, I knew we were getting close, as we drove over deep valleys cut in to verdant jungle and reddish rock. I was scared of the tight bends, but Aidan told me these were pretty mild turns for a mountainside, plus these roads were in excellent condition, better than the ones back in Peckham.

The Cameron Highlands is a famous tourist spot where there are tea farms and hiking trails; city-dwellers go there on daytrips to enjoy the cooler climes of Malaysia. It was amazing to see so much greenery after the city. There was only one bus stop at the main town called Tanah Rata. When I stepped off the bus the temperature was about 5ºC cooler and the insipid humidity had lifted. Aidan thought it was amazing, but I couldn’t really appreciate it because I was desperate for the toilet and running around with my heavy rucksack on, trying to find relief. I pegged it over to the hostel.

Father’s Guesthouse is really nice, low-key, full of backpackers and beautifully furnished. They had maps of hiking trails lining the walls and and a Twin Peaks reminiscent wooden reception desk, and lots of French guests. Leanna who worked there led us past a fishpond to our lovely little room, advising us that when we took our shoes off on the porch, we should bring them indoors because the dogs in the area were prone to chewing them to bits. The room had a revolving ceiling fan and a window with a balcony along with chairs to sit outside. Beneath our balcony was a fenced off area where a white a kitten was cavorting with a bit of bric a brac, and on the other side of the fence were children playing badminton.

The kids all waved up in our direction as we stood on the balcony admiring the great green block of mountain in front of us, with banana trees growing at the foot of it and a strip of village homes in between. What a place. So much cooler and fresh too, it was a delight. I was watching the makeshift game of badminton while Aidan showered, when the shuttlecock got hit over the fence on to our side, startling the kitten. A boy in blue looked up at me and beamed this incredible smile, which kicked me in to action, so I ran downstairs barefoot to the back garden and and picked up the shuttlecock and passed it back to him. The boy said, ‘Thank you’ and so the kids carried on playing. Then the small white kitten came and played with my toes and purred when I stroked her for ages. I named her Lily.

It was late in the afternoon so we couldn’t do any major walks. On the map Aidan found a waterfall nearby called Parit Falls, even though TripAdvisor warned us it may be polluted with rubbish we still decided to go. The waterfall was next to a playground and had bits of litter floating in it, but not enough to warrant a review (who bothers to write a review for a nature spot? Who are they criticising?) Orange sunlight poured in between the branches and the woodland was a nice change to the hot and sticky streets, although ominously I noticed the bugs were much larger.

Back at Father’s Guesthouse my partner in crime asserted that he would do some laundry because he’d only brought seven pairs of pants for a two week holiday. He explained he’d been going through them at an unprecedented rate as he was changing pants every time he showered from the heat. There was supposed to be a laundrette, which was open until 10pm and so we walked up and down the main strip with no luck finding it. A taxi office pointed us back in the direction we’d just come from. Finally, we stumbled upon a small room with five washers, five tumble-dryers and three small old ladies sat on a bench. They seemed pleased to see new faces and chuckled sweetly, as Aidan tried to work out how to use the washing machine, dispense the detergent, etc.

While his wash was spinning, we went to have dinner at a quite well-known restaurant across the road called Ferm Nonya. It was busy. Large round tables dominated the floor space, perched around each one was a pack of tourists finishing off their feasts. I saw the carcass of a lobster being taken away and the white table cloths were stained with splodges of dark sauce. We got shown to a seat pretty soon, then I ordered a bunch of things that looked nice - particularly I remember the baby ferns in garlic sauce. Aidan ran back for his washing and we wiled away the evening, picking a route to walk tomorrow and speculating on whether the restaurant owner was famous, as the table next to us were getting their photos taken with her, as were other people.  

Day 8. 20/4/19

Cameron Highlands, Tanah Rata

Currently sitting in a restaurant after being driven back from Cameron Valley Tea House #1. We started out on foot this morning, taking hiking trails no. 10 and no. 6 setting off from Father’s Guesthouse. Aidan downloaded the Maps.Me app beforehand, which was indispensable as it led us along trails we weren’t exactly sure about; a lot of trails disappear part way, blocked by sandbanks or cut off by a valley, so the app was useful to let us know when to carry on.

Trail no. 10 was an uphill start that became steeper and steeper, which began as a regular road and ended up as jungle thicket. We started in town, Tanah Rata, walked past a residential complex called H2O, then circumnavigated Tan’s Camellia Garden, which we almost walked through and were shooed away by its owner (fair enough, they must get tired of hikers accidentally traipsing through their flower garden.) We reverted back on to trail 10, which became a massive building site of red flattened earth, dusty and totally barren. It looked like Mars.

The trail led us to some steps that were cut in to bare rock, which were so sharply steep it was more like a ladder. I saw half-drunk water bottles left lying at the the bottom of the steps because you needed two hands to climb it, so I guess they’d been sacrificed. Luckily we had a rucksack. I’d brought a selection of sweet breads and snacks from Seven Eleven and Aidan carried two litres of water, which were totally necessary because the walk was pretty intense.

Once in the vegetation I kept getting stung by mosquitoes and my face was sweating buckets, I was scrambling with both hands and feet, everything was salty and itchy. The trees were tangled and the leaves were luscious, the climate wasn’t too humid and the heat was bearable at about 26º C. I walked over thick roots embedded in the mud, clinging on to them for help up squelchy surfaces. Caterpillars bristled, butterflies had eye-shadow embroidered on their wings, and lizards darted across tree bark. The air buzzed with birdsong and cicadas.

We shot out in to an opening high above Tanah Rata. There were swallows swooping past us with mean agility and grace, and large-arsed flying black beetles that defied aerodynamics. While we were admiring the swallows, an English bloke rambled past, it was funny to hear a familiar accent this far from home. The trail winded up to an electricity pylon, where an impressive panorama of the deep green landscape opened up before us. Surprisingly, there were no beetles or birds hovering over this clean concrete platform.

I sat down and ate the sweet breads. One bun filling was candied pork floss, another was plain sugar and butter called a Mexican Bun, all were incredibly sweet and/or spicy as usual. We carved on down trail no. 6 where we met an older couple down the mountainside who weren’t sure where their trail had disappeared to (download Maps.Me!) The way down was a muddy, slippery slope, like a log flume through sub-tropical jungle. I managed to stay fairly upright, not muddying my bum - very grateful to whoever maintains those trails for putting in stretchy long hose-pipes to hang on to!

At the foot of the mountains enormous banana trees lined the edge of a stream burbling through the forest. We walked out on to a chayote grove that was well maintained and luminous yellow-green, then further down we passed a tin shack where an old man and woman were crouching down, making tea from a kettle. It was the hottest part of the day and I can’t imagine it’s much fun tending to the fruit trees during that. We passed other workers too, looking after plots of fertile land on the way to the Cameron Valley tea farms. I saw an aubergine grove for the first time in my life and the flowers are so delicate and pretty, who knew?

On the farmland ravens were pecking at clumps of dirt. A large rain cloud was following us over the mountain peak we’d just climbed, gradually darkening the skies behind us, so spurring us on down the road. I peered in to a shallow pool of water, sheltered beneath leafy trees containing a school of wild goldfish, swimming cautiously reflecting colours of russet, fiery orange and gold. As the dirt road turned in to tarmac, a scooter passed us by carrying a kid and an adult, loaded high with cardboard boxes of snacks and dried foods for the village I could see up ahead on top of a small clearing.

The village looked like it had grown up with the planation, and I assume a lot of the workers lived there with their families. We were now entering the tea fields proper! I got to walk through irrigated farmland with the water rushing through the ground, I passed clipped round hedges in neatened rows, soaked in rich tea-leaf greenness, waiting to be handpicked or tended to. The both of us sat under a corrugated iron shelter and drank in our surroundings, while finishing off our water bottles and the last of the chicken-floss and mayo sandwiches. It was cool and serene under the tin roof. All around vibrated green.

Village kids came running over the horizon. One boy who was wearing a red T-shirt and jeans (who was sort of the leader of the gang, there were five of them) waved and shouted at us on the way, ‘Where are you going?’ I sort of fumbled a reply, worried we might be trespassing. Unperturbed he zealously ran past the shelter and turned around, stopping his other mates in their tracks, ‘Hello!’ he shouted, ‘What is your name?’ Rimi & Aidan. ‘Where are you from?’ England & Japan. Satisfied he ran off with his followers trailing behind. The kids I’ve seen in the Cameron Highlands seem to have a lot of independence and freedom to play.

As we carried on hiking, a large sign reminiscent of the Hollywood one came in to view that read “Cameron Valley Tea” running high across a ridge of a planation. In the corner of a field stood a miniature tin shack painted red. Inside it was propped up a golden framed piece of Chinese calligraphy and incense sticks, some glassware with liquids in and other small offerings. There were workers picking tea in straw hats and gloves spotted around the landscape, hauling baskets and bags over their shoulders. There were two workers in a field, one was spraying the ground with a hose and the other was lending a hand, lifting the heavy piping over the bushes. During their strenuous work the guy controlling the hose waved to us and shouted over the jet, ‘Ha-llo!’

As we entered the official Boh Tea planation (you could tell because there was suddenly an influx of tourists) a bitch-dog barked loudly at my heels, but she was all frills and no panties because when I turned around to look at her she slinked off and hid beneath the tea bushes. Clean clothed tourists were ambling around taking photos in front of the Hollywood sign and we walked up a a steep flight of stairs to the what was called Tea House #1.

Aidan ordered a large pot of tea and I sat across from him and a marvellous view of the rolling tea fields beneath us. Popping off my walking shoes, I hung my tired feet over the railings and sipped Cameron Valley tea from a cup, whilst watching the swallows swoop down to snatch midges in mid-air. The table top was red and a little bit battered, although the English tea was delicious and light, also the views were breath-taking. The moment we stood up the other tourists made a beeline for our table.

We walked out of Tea House #1 without a plan. I befriended a dog in a blue collar who was sleeping by the side of the road with golden fur, brown eyes and pointy ears. I named him Polo. He was great company as he came with us along the busy stretch of road, although I was anxious Polo would get hit by a passing car, he seemed chill about it and scampered about, rolling on his back over patches of grass, showing off his tricks. Polo followed us to the next Tea House #2, which was booming with tourists and then I lost him in the crowd.

Coachloads of tourists made their perfunctory stop at Tea House #2 to stock up on boxes of Cameron Valley tea and memorabilia. I asked a guy working at the check-out whether he could get us a taxi, and he helped out mightily by telling us to wait as he called a cab company, even though the place was heaving with people over the Easter weekend. The check-out guy passed us on to a security guard who was maintaining a stream of cars in to the busy car park. We waited in the shade of a hot day, watching tourists jump on and off of buses, quite hectic, then the taxi came to take us back to Tanah Rata.

Back on the the main street, we sat in a restaurant where I had my favourite ho fun noodle soup and drank a refreshing lime juice. I bought a notebook in a 2RM Store and five ball-pens in a pack (none of them worked. Great.) I bought another pen at a newsagent, then we went back to Father’s Guesthouse, where I found out that I’d got sunburnt on my neck. Urgh. So, I asked Aidan to slather after-sun on my neck and I took a nap lying facedown in my pillow.

Post-nap my sunburn had crept down a little, it’s always aggressively stingy pre-nap I find, you can deal better with almost anything after a nap. We walked up to a Chinese temple on top of a hill in Tanah Rata that doubled-up as a steamboat restaurant. Buttercup yellow shone from the hundreds of bare lightbulbs screwed in place; colourfully lit-up altars, offerings of fruit piled high on plastic plates, all so colourful; pinks, greens, blues, red. There were leaping dragons on the gabled roofs and the smell of incense. The clouds that night were enormous in the sky, like majestic stage-sets glowing rouge.

We then went for food at a street market in town. It was probably my favourite meal so far in Malaysia, as much for the fun vibes of the place, as the big bowl of flavoursome rice I ate. It was described as a “Cameron rice” on the menu and it was like nasi goreng; spiced pickled strawberries (a delicacy of CH) mixed in with fried rice, stir fried king prawns, baby corn, spring onions, peppers, and a savoury spicy sauce. The tastes were so punchy, and so were the colours on my plate! Totally delicious. The people sat around us were families as well as tourists, there was music, kids chasing cats scrambling between adults’ legs, bare light bulbs and football playing on a TV screen in the back.

A young girl in a bling cap was eyeing up the chips being fried in a wok by her older sister waitress. Raw marinated chicken was being slammed on to cutting boards with a big knife, being chopped up in to bits for the grill, next to an Islamic charity stall that was playing prayers over a tinny loudspeaker. When we went to pay for the food at the counter, I saw two large white fish living in a murky fishbowl of green tinged water, circling slowly, eyeing each other up. I bought a 2L bottle of water. All in all, the Cameron Highlands was good.