Country pursuits

Despite spending my teenage years in rural England, I never quite succumbed to its charms. I didn't ride, wouldn't shoot and couldn't see the point of traipsing for hours through muddy fields in green wellies and Barbour jacket with a faithful hound at my heels. I never returned from such outings with rosy cheeks and healthy glow, only with frizzy hair and freezing feet.

Once schooling was done, I headed for the Big Smoke - London - and have been a city dweller ever since. Yet once the children were born, I found myself looking forward to trips home to the countryside. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe simply that it is much easier to take a toddler for a walk across muddy furrows than down a city street.

Whatever the reason, this year not only saw us indulging in long walks and cycle rides, but also spectating at various local events, including the famous Burghley Horse Trials. Burghley House was home to William Cecil, Lord Burghley, Queen Elizabeth I's most trusted advisor. It stands just at the back of my old school in Stamford - we used to do cross country runs through its park - and is quite magnificent.

Each year, Burghley hosts its famous horse trials - three days of dressage, cross country and show jumping (or for those of us not into all things equine, three days of champagne quaffing and great shopping) where riders and horses do things like this:

The good news is that we Brits are actually pretty good at horsey-things and rode seven out of the top 10 placed horses. The other good news is that green wellies and Barbours are most definitely out among the horsey set. It's all leather boots and fake fur gilets now. The stand selling these boots was doing a roaring trade:

But despite Burghley's fame and splendour, it was a smaller event at a little known stately home whose park backs onto my mum's garden, that I enjoyed the most. Owned by one of the richest women in Britain, whose family money hails in part from the Astor family, Grimsthorpe Castle was holding its annual family open day.

Apart from tours of the castle - Charles and Camilla stayed here not so long ago - there was a vintage car rally, a dog show and a truly excellent sheep dog demonstration.

I can't remember the name of the well-spoken farmer who was giving the demo, but he was fantastic. Using 5 dogs simultaneously, each with their own calls for left, right, stop and go (how he knew which dog was which, let alone remembered the designated calls, is beyond me) he herded a flock of geese into a U-shaped pen formed by children from the audience. Without raising his voice above a mere whisper. Yes, he conducted the whole demo with children AND animals and not one yell or expletive. Now, William Fox-Pitt may think the cross country course at Burghley was a challenge, but for truly awe-inspiring performances, the unnamed farmer got my vote.

Beware: kids and roos crossing!

I was sorting through our Australian holiday snaps this morning and had to share this photo, taken at a school crossing. I'm not sure how the lollipop lady copes with the kangaroos, but I'm sure she does her best...

Letter from Oz

Apologies for the long silence. We are in Brisbane and I have been preoccupied with the annual family catch-up. This week we've been on the beautiful North Stradbroke Island, one of several sand islands just off the Brisbane coast, with spectacular beaches, great surf, dolphins, whales and the odd shark.

A woman was taken by a shark here in recent years swimming with her dog at dusk in murky water. All the rules broken at once: don't swim at dusk (feeding time) with a dog (lots of splashing) in water where you can't see the bloody great shark coming at you. If attacked, Ian assures me, the thing to do is biff the blighter in the snout with all your might. Uncertain as to whether I would have the presence of mind to do anything other than wait to be swallowed, I avoid the surf and what lies beneath, to the amusement of my more gung-ho Aussie relatives.

Frankly, I think it's quite healthy to have a fear of all things deadly. As well as sharks, I am also terrified of encountering poisonous spiders and venomous snakes - and let's face it, Australia has more than its fair share of these nasties. When I lived here, I spent the first few weeks religiously shaking out my shoes each morning to dislodge any lurking scorpions. Ian nearly split his sides laughing at me when he found out and I suppose he was right to point out that any scorpions were unlikely to scale three stories of an inner city apartment building and end up in my work shoes. But you can never be too careful...

So it felt rather brave to suggest a bush walk the other day - five kilometres or so to the freshwater Blue Lake in the middle of the island. "We may even spot a koala or two," I told the girls, although my eyes were firmly on the ground searching for snakes. I should have been checking out the tree trunks as we rounded a corner and spotted this staring at us:

Now I know it's not deadly, but it had a steely prehistoric glare that was quite unnerving all the same. Undaunted, we trudged on through the bush, forded the odd stream

passed some very odd looking plants

until we reached the lake.

We found a spot by the shore to eat, our only companions two council workers and a group of overly-amorous German backpackers.

As we were tucking into our lunch and I was pondering why sarnies Downunder always have to include a giant slab of beetroot, the council workers came over shaking a large, half-full plastic bag.

"Youse eat prawns?" they inquired. "Goddem off a mate's boat in Amity this mornin'. We can't eat 'em all. Youse can 'ave 'em if you want."

Ian did want and as the workers ambled off, I reflected life must be pretty good for them on Straddie - fresh prawns for lunch, surfing after work before heading to their house with a sea-view (now worth squillions thanks to the influx of townies wanting second homes) and just time for a quick stubbie and some footie-watching with their mates before their Sheila tells them grub's up. No wonder Ian's looking wistful. It might be time to come home.

The Return

I can't believe I haven't blogged for a whole month. My excuses: Christmas, overseas travel, scant internet access and, for the last two weeks, a total preoccupation with baggage tracing.

Let me explain the baggage tracing bit. We left Bahrain in mid-December for a Christmas trip to the UK and a week of skiing in France. All went swimmingly until we left the slopes for Geneva to catch the first of our flights home. The following few days went something like this:

Geneva airport, January 3rd: arrive 3 hours before departure time for Swiss Air flight to London Heathrow via Zurich.

Check in 3 bags, 1 ski boot bag and 1 pair of skis (belonging to my sister who will meet us at Heathrow to collect them).

Airport manic due to it being busiest day of the year and the baggage handlers having been on strike. Spend nearly 2 hours in queues for check-in and security.

Most flights delayed due to snow throughout Europe. Flight to Zurich leaves over an hour late. No-one can tell us if we will make our connection to London.

Zurich airport, January 3rd: arrive to find London flight has left without us - one of the only ones to leave on time that day. Bummer. Join massive economy class queue at transfer desk to be put on another London flight.

Told no seats on any flight to London from anywhere in Europe that day. Busiest day of the year. First on wait-list for next London flight.

Wait. Wait some more. Drink some really bad coffee. Go to gate.

Told by attendant we are no chance as we are a family of four. Then see him hand boarding passes to a family of four also on wait-list. Restrain husband from decking smarmy attendant. Go back to transfer desk.

Economy queue even bigger than before. Wait. Wait some more. Restrain narky children from decking each other. Get wait-listed for next flight to London.

Wait. Wait some more. Go to gate. Get told we are no chance as we are a family of four. Jealously watch passengers board.

We have missed our connection to Bahrain. No seats now until January 6th.

Return to transfer desk. Even longer economy queue. Bolshy husband marches up to first class desk and demands hotel for night and flight to London for the morning. I cower. He succeeds.

Spend night in airport hotel.

Luckily I'd packed our toothbrushes in our handluggage.

Zurich airport, January 4th: Board flight to London. Blithely assume our luggage does too.

Arrive London. Luggage does not. Neither does that of most others on the flight.

Stand in long queue to fill in lost baggage claim.

Spend night at my father's house.

Luckily I'd packed our toothbrushes in our handluggage.

UK, January 5th: Snow forecast. May even be the wrong type of snow - the settling Alpine "flocon" which grinds UK transport system to a halt rather than the more typical British slush. Decide not to risk early morning journey to airport and spend night in Heathrow airport hotel - same hotel chain as in Zurich. Maybe I could get a job as their inspector?

Heathrow airport, January 6th: Oh God! It's snowing Alpine flocons. Gatwick airport is closed. Luton and Stansted are cancelling flights.

Check in is quick as only have one remaining bag.

Board early. Spend over an hour on the stick while ground crew desperately attempts to de-ice wings. Pray. Pray some more.

Finally we take off. Treat myself to some duty-free to get over the stress.

Abu Dhabi airport, January 6th: Arrive late. Find connecting flight to Bahrain is from another terminal. Grab kids and run.

Take a leaf out of bolshy husband's book and barge to front of security queue manically waving boarding card. Startled Arab security man lets me through. Board plane with minutes to spare.

Arrive Bahrain. No luggage.

Fill in lost luggage form.

Luckily I still have our toothbrushes in our handluggage.

Bahrain, January 7th to date: lost count of the number of hours spent trying to ring baggage tracing at London City Airport. Number permanently engaged.

After 5 days, tracing is transferred to Swiss Air. Ring them. Customer service only open between 8am and 10am Swiss time. What kind of service is that?

Finally get the right number. Am put on hold. For ages. Long enough, in fact, to note their surprisingly apt choice of "on-hold" music, namely: The Three Degrees' "When will I see you again?" (yes, when will I see my Chrissie presents?); Barbra Streisand singing "We have nothing to be guilty of" (yes you bloody have - you're guilty of never answering the phone); and finally Oleta Adams singing "I don't care how you get here, just get here if you can". Quite.

Post script: had a call from Bahrain airport yesterday. One of the four missing bags has arrived. And guess what - it's the skis. Now I have to figure out how to get them back to London!

Downunder Highlights

The annual Aussie pilgrimage is at an end for another year. Here are the highlights (in no particular order):

1. Hand feeding the wild dolphins on Moreton Island. During the 1980's, dolphins started feeding on fish thrown to them by fishermen from the jetty at Tangalooma. To this day, dolphins from the same pod come into shore each evening and can be hand fed under the guidance of marine biologists from the Tangalooma resort. An amazing experience.

2. Main beach at Stradbroke Island. Possibly the best beach in the world, particularly at this time of year (Aussie winter) when there is no-one on it apart from a few surfers at dusk.

3. Toowoomba and the Aussie countryside or bush. This year we visited friends from Zambia who have relocated to the Queensland country town of Toowoomba. This is the view from their new backyard. We hadn't been inland for a number of years and I had forgotten how beautiful the bush is. Olivia (who is working on her Aussie-ness) told us she really liked being in the bushes!

4. Mars, Pepe, Strudel and Curly, the various family pets (voted by Olivia).This is Mars - probably the most indulged and most photographed dog in the world.

5. Going for walks and the kids being able to run free - appreciated enormously since living in Bahrain.

What were your holiday highlights?

The Annual Pilgrimage

July/August each year sees us embarking on the annual pilgrimage Downunder to visit Ian's Brisbane rellies (as they're called here).

The girls and I left last weekend and Ian joins us soon. A bit like the Royal Family, we never all seem to travel together - though I always cop the kids, while Ian travels in splendid isolation.

The girls are now seasoned long distance travellers and relish the fact that this is their one chance each year to fully indulge in their telly-addiction without being chastised. Olivia solemnly informed me before take-off at Abu Dhabi that there were only 11 films she really wanted to see before we touched down in Singapore.

They were brilliant though - not a peep out of them the whole time. The only hiccup was after landing in Brisbane, when it looked like one of the passengers may have swine flu and we would all need to be quarantined. This seemed a bit of a drastic measure for avoiding the in-laws.

Happily the airport doctor allowed us to disembark and we are now safely ensconced at Ian's sister's house in picturesque Shorncliffe awaiting the much-anticipated arrival of the prodigal son on Monday.

The road to Damascus

After our stay in Aleppo, we, like St Paul, were on the road to Damascus - quite literally. Syrian Airlines cancelled our internal flight and we had to drive.

We stayed in a beautifully restored Damascene house, or beit, in the old city. The houses are traditionally built around courtyards with a pool or fountain in the centre (to cool the air), plenty of plants and a shaded area for sitting.

The old city of Damascus is a bustling, vibrant place, with narrow streets and alleyways full of people. And everything is within walking distance - a real treat after Bahrain, where walking is a luxury. And there are some great restaurants serving excellent local food. I did not see one fast food outlet.

Damascus is home to the Great Umayyad Mosque, which according to the official blurb is "the Islamic most

famous mosque", although the Saudis may take issue with that. Non-Muslims are welcome but as a woman you have to dress appropriately, which entails a

visit to the "Putting on Special Clothes Room". You emerge from here clad in a grey-green hooded robe resembling something out of Star Wars. No matter, all the other female tourists look the same.

The mosque certainly provides a haven from the hustle and bustle outside, with cool floors andshaded spots where whole families gather and men snooze. The mosque's site used to be Cathedral of John the Baptist and his head is supposedly buried here. For a time, Muslims and Christians shared the site but the growth of the Muslim faith led to the then Caliph negotiating with the Christians for the church to be ceded and the mosque was constructed.

Damascus has a vast covered souk and streets full of shops selling curios and antiques - wonderful lamps, rugs and old tiles. Syria also has a thriving arts scene with a smattering of galleries and artists studios on the tourist routes.

And after a long day's walking, Kris and I headed over the road from our hotel to the hammam, or bath house. These are all over Damascus and originate from the days when houses had no bathrooms of their own. They are still very popular as a place to meet for a gossip and a wash and massage,with separate hours for men and women.

Behind the rug hanging over the door, we entered a square room with a fountain in the middle and raised benches strewn with rugs and cushions round the outside. Women of all ages and shapes lolled on these in various states of undress. We managed, with the help of sign language, to pay - hammam only. We didn't fancy the scrub and massage. You are given a little towel and expected to don some wooden clogs before negotiating the slippery entrance way to the baths. You soap yourself and sluice yourself with water from the stone basins, using the special hammam bowls (many people bring their own). We then just had a time for a steam before being ushered out as the men were due to arrive. A very communal experience!

Aleppo - Syria

Ian and I are just back from a four day trip to Syria. Despite all the bad press, it is an extremely friendly country - the people were incredibly warm and welcoming. And on the surface at least, it appears to be very tolerant. We saw local women wandering around in tight jeans and strappy tops - something unheard of in the Gulf. And best of all, we enjoyed a glass of wine in street cafes!

Our first stop was Aleppo, in the north of the country. Aleppo is Syria's second city and is famous for its citadel, its souk, its soap and its Agatha Christie connection - she wrote the first part of "Murder on the Orient Express" while staying at the city's Baron Hotel. It is also reputed to have the best food in the country.

The souk is a warren of covered alleyways, selling eveything from drinks to diamonds, carpets to coffee pots and clothes to calves' heads (yes really - vegetarians look away now. UK health and safety would have an apoplectic fit). It dates back hundreds of years and is still the place all Aleppans go to shop.

The Aleppan soap is made from olive oil and bay laurel and is 100% natural. Apparently it was used by several queens of the Middle East. And it's quite a process to make it, with the most expensive soap being aged in much the same way as cheese or wine. Some is stored for 8 years! We were lucky enough to buy some from one of the local factories, although the production season was over - it can only be made in the cooler months or it doesn't set properly.

And once you have finished your wanderings, copy the locals and visit this elaborately-dressed man for a refreshing cup of tea!