Back again to the island I visited this time last year, but it seems I’m not so lucky with the weather this time. Apparently it’s been raining and stormy for the previous two weeks at least, but last night was particularly bad with thunderstorms and horizontal rain pummelling the palm trees. Still, at least it’s warm if rather humid, and much better than what I left behind in Scotland.

The trip here was eventful – the initial flight from Edinburgh cancelled due to the airline going bust, valiant efforts from dad and his travel agent secured a replacement flight from Manchester. A 3.5 hour train journey turned into a 6 hour one, not helped by a distinct lack of heating, and assisted by the decision not to proceed to the advertised destination of the airport but to terminate at the main Manchester station where allegedly a train was being held for us to reach the airport. Said train was neither held not even appeared to have existed. The next one was 30 minutes late. Frozen, we eventually arrived near 10pm and were lucky to get a much needed meal. Meanwhile the airport was itself swathed in frozen snow and many flights that day had been cancelled.

Check-in the next morning was perhaps the most inefficient I have ever experienced – a single queue for all 19 Thomas Cook desks had a stream of people winding interminably back on itself round the concourse with no information or staff to assist. Had the 9.30 departure been on time I would have missed it, having not even got as far as security by the time it was due to take off. It was not on time, we were promised more information at 11.30, then 12.30 then told the plane was stuck at Stanstead. That was a lie. It transpired that our original plane had arrived from Stanstead that morning and was given to to a  flight delayed from the previous day – a reasonable enough decision so why the deception? Our replacement was frozen into a hanger at Manchester and could not be pulled out until later.

We boarded it at 2pm, being exhorted by the crew to move as swiftly as possible to avoid delay. At 2.30 we were told by the captain that the luggage had not yet been put on board! We eventually took off at 3.30 and the captain told us it was a bit breezy at Madeira. As any seasoned traveller will know that is pilot-speak for blowing a gale, and so it proved. Descending though turbulence we attempted unsuccessfully to land due to strong winds and then stayed in a holding pattern for a further period until it was safe to try again. We landed successfully, to rapturous applause from a somewhat tense flock of passengers, but I suspect the engineers will have had cause to check the shock absorbers on the landing gear rather carefully afterwards.

I ventured out once yesterday, and was caught in a squall 200 yards from the hotel and soaked in moments. The sea is slate grey except nearer the rocks where the sand is being churned up. But at least the hotel is comfortable and I can unwind. The local wines are again good and the seafood excellent.

Like, no doubt, many others, I received a letter telling me one of my banks was changing the name of my account. From a High Interest Current Account to just a Current Account. Have you guessed the reason yet? Yep, got it in one, they’re not going to be paying any interest on it any more. And of course in the alternative “upgraded” version there’s a monthly charge. How stupid do they think we are?

Sadly there will be plenty of people who will bin the letters as being just another one of those endless streams of mind-numbing conditions documents that require three years free time, a masters degree in legal obfuscation, and a microscope to decipher.

Me, I’ll be finding a new home for my current account money, and probably for my savings and isas as well, since they’ve also had their interest rates cut to microdecimals – so much so that the tax benefits have almost dissappeared. Pity I didn’t buy gold a few months ago, I’d be well in now.

Madeiran review

The week I spent in that delightfully mild climate was a ideal rest that was badly needed. I’d intended to do some walking in the highland areas using the astonishing range of Levadas – the irrigation channels that bring the water from the cloud-covered hills to the farming areas and villages of the coast. In the event I found the whole atmosphere of the island so relaxed that I just leant back and enjoyed the unaccustomed lack of stress. I can see why so many people from stressed out Britain love this island so much. Nearly everyone from the UK that I spoke to was on at least their 8th visit and some had made arrangements to retire there. With an average temperature of between 18 and 24 degrees all year round it’s an ideal environment for anyone who can’t take the extremes of heat that are liable to be found in Spain or the Mediterranean. If I didn’t have my eyes on retiring to Slovenia I might well consider it.

I was particularly looking forward to the food and wine, and it didn’t disappoint. The seafood in particular was excellent and the restaurants wonderfully friendly. The Madeiran and Portuguese wine went down very well indeed – quite different from my normal preferences but matching the food very well.

Sadly the friend I referred to in the last posting succumbed to the cancer she’d fought for so long in the early hours of New Years Day. It made a sombre start to the year, the only blessing being that she was no longer suffering. The only other downer of the week was the return home. The plane we were due to be on had apparently been in an accident with a ground vehicle and a new plane had to be summoned. A long delay meant that instead of arriving in Glasgow at tea-time I only just got back in time to get the last train back to Edinburgh at 11.30pm. Not the return I’d hoped for.

By the time I’d become re-accustomed to the freezing Scottish conditions I had realised how empty the flat seemed without my flatmate, particularly when it proved impossible for her to come back for our friend’s funeral. In fact it she has still not returned but is due back next week. In the meantime I’ve been knocking the flat into shape – styling it to my own preferences while keeping an eye on what she might prefer. It still needs some painting in the living room and that will have to be done now that the light is improving but
it’s a lot more like a home than it was. Though she’s only back for a short time I’m hoping it’ll meet with her approval.

We’ve only been in the new flat for three weeks but already it has become home, a place I’m delighted to be and where I can relax in a way I haven’t been able to do for a long time. My flatmate is also away, but for her it’s three and a half weeks of new experiences and hard work, and a lot of uncertainty, with the possibility that she will be away for 4 weeks out of every 6 for some time. She was hyper for the last few days, yet still looking after me before herself. She is looking forward as she always does but hates to leave her new home so soon. I pray she’ll be ok and be back safe and sound; the flat will be very empty without her.

I’m also going away at a time when a friend is seriously ill and I fear for her and for her husband. I wish I could be there for them but have to remember to look after myself, and this holiday is badly needed. Thankfully they have many other good friends to support them.

So, what will Madeira be like I wonder? From the guidebooks it seems much more green than Malta was last year, and that has to be good. Here’s hoping for a comfortable hotel, good food, good light and no storms. And the odd bottle of Madeiran wine should be interesting too!

It all happened a bit suddenly in the end. Only a couple of weeks after the idea was first mooted, payments rushed through, keys collected, and van organised, we were moving vast quantities of stuff out of my new flatmate’s old place and rather less out of mine. My not-quite as youthful as they were muscles complaining bitterly the next morning. Though ostensibly a furnished flat there were various things missing that were deemed essential by my new companion and we spent a tidy sum in the second-hand shops rectifying the omissions. Of course that meant endless rearrangements once we’d finally squeezed it all in. A massive shop on Sunday morning while we still had the van and then a dash across town to return it. Such was our state of exhaustion that we both slept for 4 hours in the afternoon before attacking the furniture arrangements one last time to get the place the way we wanted.

Routines are now altered, a different time to wake up, a different kitchen, a longer trip to a different railway station to go to work. Initially it was hard to break the automatic return to the old marital home, especially when so much of my books and music is still there for now until I can arrange storage. But already that life has gone, replaced by a more relaxed evening environment and a new style of cooking which my flatmate insists on doing for me. She’s been a revelation and a delight, and has really made our place into a home in a very short time. I can’t thank her enough for suggesting the move and her energy in making it happen. If the next year is as good as the first two weeks then it’ll be a very good move indeed.

Now our banking system is in ruins; HBOS, which was a combination of one of the most conservative banks and the largest building society in the UK has lost over 90% of its stock market value and is apparently so short of liquidity that it needs to be taken over by Lloyds-TSB, and all the other major banks need shedloads of public money to carry on. So the man in the street is seeing his savings and investments reduce in value and his taxes going to prop up banks that seems unable to handle money despite giving us a poor service and high charges.

Meanwhile those gas prices that went up are noticeably not coming down despite a major fall in the oil prices that they were supposed to be connected to. Ever get the feeling you’ve been had?

The fact IMHO is that the people who run the money markets are generally pretty clueless apart from the speculators and the occasional guy like George Soros who can see trends before they happen. Most of them are there because of who they know rather than what they know. How many times have we seen competitions where a bunch of schoolkids manage to outperform the advice of all the “best” financial pundits and advisors. And as was shown some time ago the financial system is an almost perfect example of Chaos Theory in action. With the modern inter-connectedness that has been built into the international trading systems chaotic behaviour is a predictable (if that isn’t a contradiction in terms) outcome. A downward trend once started is almost impossible to stop. (As I write this I’m looking at the stock markets continuing to fall despite the 1.5.% cut)

Unfortunately the banks and building societies, once the bastions of safe conservative advice, have been sucked into the constant drive for more and more growth and as a result they have tended to dive into markets that would previously have been seen as far too dangerous, simply because to be seen to be lagging behind had become unacceptable when others were forging ahead, no matter how ill-advised such sectors might be.

Sadly there is very little indication that governments are willing to impose any real constraints on the banks or the markets. Maybe they’ve become so international as to be unmanageable, yet if so how come it’s national funds that are bailing them out? Maybe neither politicians or civil servants have the experience to operate in this field. Or maybe the theory of economics and monetary matters just showed once again how incomplete a theory it really is and no-one dares tinker with something that they’ve realised they don’t understand.

(The link at the top of this post is to a post on Robert Peston’s excellent BBC blog which is becoming a must-read for market watchers.)

My admiration for this country continues to grow, and I seriously wonder if I could move here. Populated by an industrious and charming people, they also seem to have the right idea of pace of life and what is really important. And two of the most important subjects are food and drink, both of which they excel at. Indeed the only fault I can find overall is that they seem to have little concept of a light lunch! It is easy to eat so much that dinner becomes unnecessary, and that would be a crime.

Slovenian food and drink

Their ingredients are sublime: beef and venison that seems to require the lightest of cooking but exudes flavour and succulence, fish that melts on the tongue, mushrooms that can only have been created by forest elves, and soft fruits and berries that explode on the tongue with juices of scarcely describable taste. Parents, if British children won’t eat fruit and veg (and I have to raise my hand as a long time carnivore) then they aren’t being pernickety, they are merely showing good taste – the fruit you get in the UK, often imported out of season from forced cloches in Spain and similar countries, is tasteless and tough compared to the fresh, vibrant selection available in Slovenia. I have never much liked cherries – they are hard poor things in Scotland, here I have them for breakfast and then go out to a fruit stall for more. Sensational is an inadequate word. I seldom liked strawberries which often display a rough texture except in the very best time of year for native Scottish ones; here they melt in the mouth and leave juice stains in the dish.

All this of course still requires a good chef and a good waiter to interpret his creations and blend suggestions of wine and courses. Many Slovene restaurants adept at this, even the smallest simplest establishments produce excellent food, but I feel confident in saying I have been lucky enough to find the best in the Topli Val restaurant in the Hvala Hotel in Kobarid. It has won a number of awards and in my opinion if anywhere ever deserved a Michelin Star then this is it. I can only assume they haven’t visited it. In the space of two weeks – one last year and one this – I have learned more about the blending of tastes, both courses and wines and different ingredients and their effects on each other, than in a lifetime of visiting other restaurants, many of them which I thought very good. All the staff in the hotel are as friendly and attentive as could be wished for with a real personal touch that makes you feel at home; we were remembered despite it being only our second visit and greeted as old friends, but I simply cannot rate the chef and head waiter highly enough – they have delighted and educated us in equal measure. To give only one example for now, Scotland produces excellent scallops and I’ve tasted quite a few fine instances; the scallops I had here were in a different class, cooked in highest quality olive oil and presented with baby tomatoes and black olives in a delicate combination that even included the (usually purely decorative) sprig of rosemary which absorbed just enough heat to exude a perfectly combined additional scent. Heavenly.

Slovenian Wine and Beer

Slovene beer is second only to Czech in my opinion, clear and clean tasting and wonderfully refreshing on a hot day. However it is Slovenian wine which is the real secret and one which I cannot understand is not more widely known and appreciated. Having this year visited one of the best wine growing regions it is easy to see they have ideal conditions, and they certainly make the best of them. Forget the cheap Laski Reisling which was the only one ever really exported in any quantity to the UK; whether the grape is Chardonnay, Pinot, Sauvignon or one of their local varieties, Slovenian wines display a depth of character and smooth variety of flavours that had us both purring in satisfaction. Their cheaper wines are very good, their select wines are simply outstanding. Sadly the only way to get them in Britain was to import them directly, with the consequent postage costs; however there are moves afoot to establish a distributor and if this occurs then perhaps they might at last achieve the recognition they deserve. Either way I’ll be drinking them whenever I have the chance.

I saw the first few about nine days ago and so far the most I’ve seen together is six, but even a couple are enough to bring a smile to my face and a lift in my heart. There’s something about their uninhibited, joyous,  swooping flight that raises the spirits and reminds you that life is there to be enjoyed.

Last year we had around twenty regularly circling and diving around the rooftops of our flat; the most we’ve had since the old brewery buildings over at Fountainbridge were demolished. Long may they return to announce the summer.

The week started promisingly enough, a morning flight from Glasgow was smooth and uneventful and landed us amid pleasant sunshine and 18 degree temperatures. It was busy on the transfer ride, but the view from the hotel’s roof terrace over to Valletta was spectacular and the light as the sun went down was pleasing. As I started to relax I realised that only force of will had been keeping me going for the previous few weeks and I felt curiously detached, like a sailor finding his sea-legs, and found it easy to take occasional naps. Xmas day was quieter, and I took a longish walk in the pleasant sunshine, round the various marinas and almost to Valletta itself. Had I realised what was to come I’d have continued up the hill and taken more pictures, but feeling tired and having an equal walk back I retraced my steps. Once back at the hotel I astonished myself by falling asleep in the bath for the only time in my life.

Boxing day dawned to a squally wind and no sun; it was not to return for the rest of the week. Walking north to St Julian was, as we say on the east coast of the UK, bracing. Through binoculars I watched what became the final harbour tour boat of the week swing out of the Grand Harbour and into Sliema Creek where I was staying. I was glad not to be aboard as it pitched and rolled alarmingly while turning side on to the waves. For the rest of the week not even the ferry which runs from Sliema to Valletta, never leaving the sheltered harbour, ran at all, such was the swell.

The next day I took a bus to Valletta, there being little point in going further afield in the gloomy conditions. The buses are mostly ancient British Leylands and Bedfords which are, by some engineering and administrative miracle, still deemed roadworthy. Mine appeared to be missing at least two gears and hand signals seemed to be the order of the day. With no seat padding and little legroom I would not like to inflict a long journey in one on my long limbed frame.

Valletta was packed with people and to my horror had speakers on the lamposts blaring out hollywood xmas songs. (One more chorus of Frosty the Snowman and I swear I’d have raided the nearest armoury and set about demolishing lamposts). I escaped into the Archaeology Museum for some peace and quiet and some understanding of the ancient history of the islands. It took some time to find a quiet cafe down one of the many side streets, but the food was excellent and plentiful. Nearby was the Carmelite Church whose massive dome dominates the skyline and once again the silence was welcome while admiring the architecture. Apparently the dome was constructed without internal scaffolding, which is an amazing feat of building skill.

Sadly there is little else worth writing about. The weather turned worse, waves throwing spray high up the Valletta sea wall, and culminated in a massive thunderstorm on the Saturday which flooded the road outside the hotel. My plans to venture further afield, particularly to the walled city of Mdina were shelved.

Maybe I’ll get another chance, maybe not. While I didn’t see it in its best light, it has to be said that I didn’t fall in love with Malta the way some people do. For one thing it is too crowded and busy for my taste. For another, strange as it may seem, it is too British. While it has no doubt reasserted its own identity since becoming independent in the 1960s, it retains some of the old British ways that to me sit uneasily with a Mediterranean population. And it seems to be becoming a retirement home for brits. I’m not sure that’s healthy in such a small island.

Eight years ago she had a severe stroke and has been paralysed on one side and unable to speak ever since. She was already in poor health and dad had been looking after her for quite a while. She’s now 82, he’s 84. Apart from help getting her up in the morning and putting her to bed at night he gets no other help apart from the occasional period in respite care. For all that time he’s had disturbed nights – up four or five times a night – and like anyone would he’s struggled with lack of sleep. He’s done all the cooking and cleaning and all the other chores of caring for an invalid. Basically it’s been wearing him out, but he’s a man of great integrity and sense of duty so he’s carried on, with little complaint except when at the end of his tether.

After a lot of persuading he finally agreed to let the doctor recommend that mum be assessed for care and this week we got the report to say that she would be kept in the respite hospital until a place could be found in a nursing home.

As might be expected he’s torn between relief that he doesn’t have to face the daily and nightly grind of constant care, and guilt that he couldn’t do it any more.

As yet we don’t know what it’s likely to cost so that constant worry of the last few years is still to be resolved.

As for me I’m relieved for him, while sorry for the fact that mum is having to leave her home behind. But most of all I’m angry – that someone who fought for his country in some of the worst fighting of the Second World War, sustaining injuries that would dog him for many years and cast a cloud over my own childhood, should be left to cope with such a situation for so long with poor advice and little backup. Our elderly people should be allowed to enjoy their final years without such worries and stresses. They’ve done their bit; fought, worked, brought up children, paid their taxes and their National Insurance, contributed in every way to the economy and the well-being of the country. We should honour them, respect their experience and their knowledge. Instead we treat them like a burden that we’d like to forget about.

A land fit for heroes? Hah!

Maybe we should put the politicians in nursing homes and tell them that’s where they are going when they get voted out. That might change things.