27/4/14

Returning from holiday to a beautiful sunny day and spring has erupted while we have been away. Spring smells fresh and there is a smell of sawn wood, less obvious than the pine smell earlier, a softer scent of broom mingles with them. The soft deep green brushes are covered in vivid yellow pea flowers and they line the drove. Walking through a clearing I catch the nutty smell which I don’t instantly recognise but when I look up I realise it is hawthorn. Such a familiar smell; one that I love, but unlike the lilac which I gather to fill as many vases as possible, I have never brought hawthorn blossom into the house. It is reputed to be unlucky and my mother firmly believes that every time we picked it she went into hospital. It is colloquially referred to as May. In the north it does flower in May but here the creamy clusters smother the hedgerows from April, overhanging roadside verges full of the white froth of Queen Anne’s Lace. Spring hedgerows are so exuberant.

In the forest the beeches have transformed themselves in our absence. The sharp pointed buds gradually fatten until they can no longer keep back the leaves which open fan-like to become the softest of any spring leaves. The branches are covered in flounces of pale silk which flutter in the breeze. It is only when they are new that the leaves feel like tissue. As they mature they become darker and stiffer, crowding all light out from anything that tries to grow beneath them. At this time of year the light trickles through and on bright days they are almost translucent.

Along the side of the tracks bracken fronds are spiking up through the lush grass. They emerge the shape of shepherds crooks but as the hairy stems grow taller the leaf clusters make me think of well-ordered caterpillars balancing ,waiting for permission to unfurl their wings into leaves. Spring flowers are hiding in the grass too. Tiny specks of blue field speedwell, occasional purple spring vetch  and the criss-cross leaves of hairy tare with white flowers so small you can only see them if you bend down and peer closely. Last year they did not appear until a week or so later.

I hear a woodlark but without my binoculars I cannot see it. I also hear a cuckoo in the distance towards the railway line. They say that you always hear a cuckoo in the same place every year. I have for the last four years but I don’t find it surprising as I walk the same place every year and the cuckoo probably comes back. I heard on the radio that cuckoo named after Chris Packham is the longest one being tracked. It is still producing signals after three years.

When I return Jazz home and tell his owner that I have heard a cuckoo in the forest he says “That’s late. I usually hear them at the end of March. Last year I rang the RSPB and they told me it wasn’t unusual as they have recorded them as early as March 10^th.”

JOURNEY TO HABANA

It is said “To Travel Hopefully is Better than to Arrive”. The dawn rose bright and benevolent the day we embarked on the first leg of our journey to Cuba. We sailed along uncrowded roads listening to “Farming Today” and even the M25 was unusually trouble free. Our “meet and greet” worked like a dream. We arrived at the terminal to be met by a respectable looking middle – aged man who took charge of our car and drove it away into company care for the next two weeks. We quickly dispensed with our suitcases to a smiling , scarlet suited young woman and having reassured her that we were not carrying any weapons or explosives we sauntered to security.

There was a sharp trill as Jeffrey stepped through the metal detector. He was suitably scanned by the magic detecting wand and having identified no offending item the officer cheerily asked “Knee or hip?” “Both “. We were waved on our way and proceeded to the departure lounge .The chance for a leisurely breakfast was in sight , despite the usual hive of activity which is the hallmark of early morning airports. I enjoy airport breakfast. It is a small time slot when there are no demands except to ring my mother to say goodbye. She never wants to know what time we are flying because “I’ll only worry” but nevertheless always expects this last goodbye before we depart.

Breakfast enjoyed, we had time for a little consumer indulgence . I find it impossible to resist bookshops at the airport. I become convinced that I do not have enough to read and I must just find just one more book. For some reason I am always tempted by politics or economics and have found some very useful items in these last minute perusals although on this occasion I was restrained and succumbed only to the temptation of The Economist. Purchasing the newspapers, we were ready to sit, read, relax and wait for our flight. All seemed well with our world.

The first sign that we had been lulled into a false sense of security was when the ominous “Flight delayed “ appeared on the departure board. It was only an hour, not the end of the world, but my usual resentment of being ripped untimely from my bed started to emerge. I am not a morning person. Only the lure of faraway places and new experiences can persuade me to rise before the dawn chorus. The excitement had carried me so far but any slight hiccough and I revert to my normal, grumpy, morning self.

The announcement proved to be remarkably accurate and we were sitting comfortably in our seats, bags stowed, books and magazines carefully selected, film choices perused and seat belts fastened even before requested, after only the predicted hour’s delay . When the pilot’s dulcet tones came over the loudspeakers we expected to be told to listen carefully to the safety instructions .

But no, his smooth cultured voice was warning us of a ten minute delay. I slouched into my kindle, good humour having not quite dissipated . Every ten minutes he reassured us and offered us the promise of departure within the next ten minutes. “Everything possible is being done” he informed us silkily “the guys down there are doing a really good job” and “working really hard to get us away”. We were marginally placated by their hard work which we did not actually doubt considering the costs airlines pay for their planes to be sitting on the ground. Nevertheless, delay followed delay followed by further delay. Bite sized chunks of comfort were provided by the captain while the cabin staff supplied us with packets of chive flavoured pretzels. These little morsels would never pass my lips in normal life but monotony overcame my usual restraint and I crunched with my fellow captives.

Eventually, the pilot decided we deserved a few more facts to add ballast to the platitudes . “The plane arrived this morning with a major problem that could not be fixed.” “We managed to get a new plane “ he told us with a degree of satisfaction, as if he personally had miraculous conjured up an alternative plane in the manner of an American TV magician, “ but the new plane also has a small problem”. By this time Habana was receding to a distant dream . We knew there was only one scheduled flight each day and even major airlines have a limit to the number of planes they can produce out of a hat. Despite our scepticism, two hours later we soared away from the runway stuffed with pretzels and full of relief.

The flight was as uneventful as one can expect nine hours buzzing through the air to be. Food suddenly becomes a major highlight on long haul flights and despite being fed every hour or so I always feel excited when I can smell the food wafting from the service station. Being vegetarian means that I am invariably fed first. I can munch away while everyone else waits patiently. We soared our way through the clear blue of the atmosphere above the carpet of clouds. I managed to read the whole of a fascinating book on the Black Act, a historical tale of Whigs versus the common people in the battle for England’s forests. Not surprisingly, the rich and powerful won, more or less, but it inspired me for battle against current elites trying to steal my forests away from me.

I turned on my Kindle and continued to read through the trouble free landing at Habana. When a plane lands everyone stands up, struggles to retrieve their bags from the overhead locker, packs everything away neatly and tries to get into the aisle whilst trying to look as though they are not the sort of people who push. We waited in this uncomfortable state of anticipation and waited and waited. Our dark imaginings started to invent the worst possible scenarios .All was revealed when the doors finally opened. We were guided down a set of moveable steps from the plane, ten yards across the tarmac and then up another set of steps into a caterpillar tube which admitted us to the terminal building. This was not an attempt to give us some exercise in the hope of avoiding DVT. They had been unable to attach the landing jetty to the plane but as the terminal entrance was at the same level as our exit doors they had to use one that was free standing in order to enter the Arrivals area and an Immigration Hall packed with people .Twenty long queues snaked their way towards bored officials who stamped passports, glared at photographs and faces with hostile or bored expressions and waved weary travellers though.

When faced with queuing options I find the choice almost impossible to make. I use rules of thumb such as the length of the queue and the energy of the official but such rationality cannot take account of tea breaks or potential illegal immigrants. I always feel I have chosen the wrong option as my particular line inches slowly forward or comes to a sudden inexplicable halt. I rarely have the courage to change lines. Sometimes we adopt the strategy of standing in different lines with the aim of reuniting when one if us approaches the front but this is not always popular with fellow travellers and seems pointless when there are just too many to choose from. Only at the end of an hour long wait did we risk moving to another queue. By that stage the hall was an echoing warehouse with only a small group of about ten who had all succeeded in making wrong choices. At my local Primary School we encourage the children to learn how to make “good” or “bad choices” as they develop their social skills. How to choose between queues is not part of their education. On this night we had definitely made “bad choices”.

When I eventually faced the dark haired , brown eyed young man hidden in the booth I realised I had misjudged his work ethic. It was not his energy that was at fault but the antiquated computer system. I would not have been surprised if he had produced a Brownie camera to take the photographs the authorities deemed necessary. Consoled that the delay meant that at least we would not have to wait for our baggage, we were eventually allowed through the doors marked EXIT.

We could not escape so easily. The doors at the end of each immigration booth led to security screening. Suitably screened with our belongings we found a cavernous ghost Baggage Hall. Only a handful of uniformed men sat chatting happily showing no interest whatsoever in the bedraggled , stray tourists wandering around looking lost. A few plastic clad chrysalides sat forlornly on the ground as one black rubber conveyor belt trundled in endless circuits carrying four disconsolate suitcases waiting to be claimed. None were ours. A dozen or so increasingly frantic British people rushed from bag to bag hoping against hope that each time they looked the same bag it would have changed to become the one they were searching for. In the same futile hope I too scrutinised every bag until I had finally satisfied myself that none was mine. At last I succumbed to the lure of the Lost Luggage section. The helpful young man interrupted his leisurely telephone chat to advise me that we were in the wrong baggage hall. We had been so relieved to escape from the formalities that we had failed to read the notices pointing to “London” baggage. Almost running across the vast empty space of yet another hall I caught sight of my beloved suitcase. It sat upright, alone, waiting for its owner to rescue it from oblivion. Jeffrey’s bag sat rather more comfortably in the company of a handful of others at the far end but he was not willing to believe in his luck until he was able to grasp it firmly with both hands , carefully examine its label and read the name and address he had written so long ago at home .

Feeling more comfortable, albeit several hours late by this stage, we strode confidently towards the “SALIDA” sign which pointed back though the Baggage hall we had previously exited. The Customs Officials paid no attention to the few straggling tourists wearily making their way through the “Nothing to Declare” gate. They were fruitfully engaged in loquacious battles with homecoming Cubans surrounded by giant piles of clingfilm coated commodities. Like flies trapped and wrapped in giant spiders webs these imports provided feasts for the voracious customs men to devour at will.

Emerging into the Arrivals lounge a small tiled square was cordoned off. It offered the dazed visitors a limited degree of protection from the throngs straining to see their loved ones the moment they stepped through into the light. We searched around the few bored travel agents and taxi drivers holding cardboard hand written signs aloft above the heads of the crowds. None bore the name of our travel company as it slowly dawned on me that we were several hours late in arriving and a welcome may not be readily at hand.

We managed to manoeuver a route through the crowds oblivious to our struggles, into the heat and darkness of the Caribbean evening. We were no more successful here than we had been inside. Several taxi drivers offered us rides in desultory fashion but were not persistent and accepted our refusals with stoicism. Finding a small patch of uninhabited pavement we pitched camp and deposited our bags to take stock and wait. Unhampered now, I embarked on a further search of the Arrivals hall which proved no more fruitful than the last one. We finally resorted to ringing the emergency telephone number provided in our information pack.

I was confidently informed by the respondent that our travel agent should be at the airport to meet us. I had to agree with that but it did not progress matters much further. We suggested that they should telephone the agent and tell them we were there, directly outside Door 10. Leaving Jeffrey there to await rescue I reconnoitred the hall again. Peering closely at the badges on the chests of every single person who looked remotely like an agent I was eventually adopted by a kindly elderly man who asked me who I was looking for. He reassured me that “she” was looking for us and proceeded to trail me through the human morass to find her. We did. An excitable, suntanned, skinny blond, aged about thirty wearing scarlet cut offs and spikey heels , she volubly informed me that we had come out of the wrong exit. She had been waiting for us at the “other” exit. Feeling somewhat jaded with my experience thus far, I pointed out equally forcibly that we could not possibly have known which exit she was waiting at and that it was surely her responsibility to find us. We made our way back to Jeffrey and after a few more excitable recriminations on her part and irritated responses on ours I pointed out that I needed to exchange some money. Cuba has a currency specifically for tourists which cannot be exported or imported. This is an eminently sensible economic strategy but not a convenient one for visitors .

I rushed over to the currency exchange only to be shooed away by a solid looking man who could easily have graced the door of a sleazy Soho nightclub. There were a pair of them, black suited, legs apart, arms folded, staring stolidly ahead keeping at bay the hordes of people trying to get hold of this currency that could not be allowed to escape the country. My crime in this instance was that I had not noticed the inevitable queue. When I eventually reached the desk and was counting out a large pile of notes I reflected that the men in black were actually quite a reassuring presence.

Ultimately, armed with a fistful of Cuban tourist pesos, I returned to my husband only to be collared by the red- trousered guide who by now was accompanied by a tall, dark, handsome young man. I would clearly not be allowed to escape again! Jeffrey assured me quietly that our new guide seemed very sensible and we were duly escorted to our taxi after friendly “Hola”s and handshakes with all and sundry. Spikey heels stalked away, staccato, across the stone pavement never to be seen again.     Our Cuban adventure could begin at last.