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TGO – chapter 4

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Chapter 4

They pick our driver up of the floor, dust him down and give him another ouzo and bottle of beer in case he has a sudden attack of sobriety. I ask Dimitri what the Greek is for ‘We have changed our mind. We will sleep on the pile of mule crap outside. Please do not trouble the lorry driver any more.’ but at that moment two and a quarter Germans arrive in the hut. The two are man and wife, the quarter is their four year old son and they have just returned from climbing most of the way up Olympus. The last stretch was too dangerous for the child. They offer us a lift back down the mountain road. we accept. With profuse apologies to our Greek driver who is on the floor again we pile in the back of the German’s camper-van and in an hour we are back at the little hotel we left this morning. I decide that Einstein must have worked out his Theory of Relativity while climbing a Greek mountain. How can it take less than an hour coming down and all day going up?

The landlady laughs at us and gives us our rooms back. She knew we weren’t going to make it. Why didn’t she tell us and save us all that trouble? I notice that she is wearing stockings held up just under the knee by rubber bands and also that she has a hairy mole on her chin. ‘Ha’, I think, ‘I might not be able to climb mountains but at least I don’t have a hairy mole on my chin or wear stockings held up by rubber bands.’
We have some food and go to bed glum deciding that tomorrow we will be real mountaineers and not shnorrer nebbishes who take all day to do the Litahoro Gorge. In the room above mine the Americans who stumbled up the mountain a few days ago on a diet of red wine and marijuana are smoking more dope and drinking more red wine and arguing about which country they are in. They finally decide that they are in Finland. I shout at them to shut up in German and the debate starts all over again.

In the morning the landlady gives us some more pretend orange juice and frozen eggs and we set off again for the mountain. This time we drive to the hut at Paranoia following the hairy mountain road and avoiding the mountains of mule crap that are not marked on the map. We leave the car and gird our loins all three of us in good heart. It is 8.30 and cool, the sun just edging over the rim of the gorge. We fill our water bottles and with good heart and a cheery disposition we enter the forest. Four hours and three thousand feet later we are sitting in the sun on the benches at the mountain refuge. Easy peasy this mountain climbing we decide just over three thousand feet more and we’ll be on the top of Metaxa, the main summit peak of Mt Olympus eating Ambrosia and talking to Zeus and Mrs Zeus and all the other Greek gods.
Danny and Dimitri go for a lie down while I sit in the sun watching climbers come and go. From the mountain refuge you can see all the way back to Litahoro and the coast and all the way up to the serrated ridge of Metaxa which looks, from here, like the fingers of a splayed hand. A group of German blokes arrives very noisy and covered in dust and sweat. I hope they aren’t billeted in our bunk room then find out that they are.

Dinner is good and is cooked on wood fires fuelled by the windfall in the forests.
After dinner we crash ready for the climb ahead. As Danny and I lie on our bunks Dimitri starts to organise his pack, taking (and this is no lie since I timed him) forty five minutes, during which the room is filled with the noises of somebody trying to be quiet and failing miserably. Plastic bags rustle no matter what you do and after forty five minutes of Dimitri and the plastic bags Danny shouts at him in Yiddish and Dimitri gets back into his pit and all is quiet for three minutes.
Then the Germans come to bed. All night the Germans fart and whisper. The whispering is bearable but the farting is quite unbelievable loud and long and widespread, eight Teutonic sphincters in uncoordinated cacophony, and when one of them gets up to go to the toilet lighting his way with a cigarette lighter I half expect the refuge to be blown off the face of the mountain.
I hate bunk houses and lie there sleepless and cursing wondering what the hell I am doing climbing a mountain with a junior rabbi and a Manchester Greek taverna owner. Instead of counting sheep I secretly machine gun the trouser coughers in my imagination and soon the room is littered with the bodies of farting Germans.

The next day’s journal entry reads ‘Vas ein tag! Mein gott in himmel! Up at 5.30 to photograph the sunrise which is quite boring – without cloud the sun has nothing to play on and rises like an unpoetic orange balloon. The farting Germans come out too late and just to get my own back I tell them that it was the best sunrise I have ever seen. They fart some more and then go in to breakfast.
We pack and are off by 7 am. At first our way leads through forest and is a cool dander, then the forest thins out and gives way to rougher stony ground. Ahead of us Olympus beckons. Behind us we can see the Germans, a cluster of tiny farting dots following us up the mountain.

Posted in The Greek Odyssey|

TGO – chapter 3

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Chapter 3

With the bells of the town graveyard still ringing behind us we drop down into the Litohoro gorge. The early morning sun is already hot enough to fry eggs on the pavement but having brought neither eggs nor pavement we carry on walking and sweating. The heat in the gorge thickens and we climb steadily in its narrow confines going from close to sea level at Litohoro to where the old shepherd’s track we are walking on climbs up to a narrow stone gate on the cliff face where there are great views of the gorge ahead and the coast and town behind us. Having gained this height we lose a good lump of it again dropping back to the river. The temperature now must be close to forty and for hours we follow a switchback path along the river. I am lathered in sweat and though I’m drinking a lot of water it doesn’t seem to be enough and I can feel the beginnings of cramp in my calfs – I knew I shouldn’t have brought them.
In two places the path leads out across the cliff face high above the river. Over the winter the path has fallen away and twice we have to shuffle along twelve inches of crumbling dust with a lot of nothing underneath us. Dimitri is very quiet at both these points while Dan mutters phrases in Yiddish that have words like ‘shnorrer’ – ‘shlemiel’ and ‘meshuganah’ in.
At 11.30 we stop for a food and water stop at a side gully where a winter avalanche has cleared a break in the forest. There is a stream and waterfall with tufa formations on the rock similar to those in Gordale Scar and we sit for an hour rehydrating and eating our nuts and fruit. Dan decides that being the first junior rabbi on Mount Olympus isn’t such a bad idea. Dimitri has a quick snooze and I eat a bag of dried apricots, remembering too late that it was eating a bag of dried apricots in the Pakistan Himalaya that earned me the title of ‘the sahib with the exploding trousers’ amongst the Balti porters.
After the gully the path is much more difficult with boulders and fallen trees blocking our way forward. Most people climbing Olympus ignore the Litohoro Gorge and go straight to the road head at Paranoia. Spending the day in an airless gorge scrambling over landslides in a temperature of forty degrees centigrade was my idea – which is why I am a meshuganah shnorrer.
Danny is going strong now over the difficult terrain, I’m much slower and Dimitri is finding the going a lot harder. He’s climbed Snowdon and Kinder recently but all his other climbing has been up and down the stairs in his Manchester taverna, and this is the first time he’s carried a heavy pack. I’ve had some kind of a virus infection just prior to leaving for Greece which I’ve managed to defeat with echinacea tincture but I’m not on best form so I too am finding it hard going.
I’ve drunk a lot of water but have lost more through sweating in the unforgiving heat and about an hour after the gully I cramp up badly at one point lying flat out on a rock both calf muscles locked solid, the pain so bad I describe it on my journal as ‘like giving birth with your legs’. After bearing down and doing my breathing exercises I manage to carry on. For the next two hours I hobble on slowing everybody up.
We have not seen a soul all day then suddenly twelve German walkers appear upstream powering down towards us their trekking poles flashing in the sun, all but two of them are women, mahogany brown and fit as butchers dogs. The two men trail behind them and I ask them how far it is too Paranoia. They are not in the mood for talking but hurry on down shouting ‘Not far – maybe one hour’ over their shoulder. The guide book reckons the gorge should only take four and a half hours. It’s three o’ clock now which means we three shlemiels have been shlepping for seven hours (six if you deduct the water stop) and are still an hour off Paranoia.
We plod on. Dan mutters something about Moses and forty years in the wilderness. Dimitri is too knackered to mutter. I mutter anyway just to keep Dan company.
A little way on we come to a chapel built into an overhang under the cliff where a stream resurges flowing through the chapel before falling down to the river. Inside the chapel an oil lamp burns before a handful of icons.
We move on up the gorge and within a kilometre of the chapel we see a ruined monastery amongst the fir trees on the opposite side of the gorge. Dimitri looks in the guide book.
‘The German’s destroyed it because the partisans were using it as a base.’
‘No wonder they were in a hurry to get down.’ Dan says.
‘It was nearly sixty years ago.’ Dimitri tells him
‘They didn’t look that old.’
Dimitri and I look at each other and wonder whether he’s kidding us but decide to leave it. The path is much easier now and a slow and steady pace brings us to the little taverna at the road head at Paranoia exactly eight and a half hours after setting off. We are all completely trashed so any thought of going on the extra two and a half hours to the refuge on the mountain goes out of the window.
We sit and drink, rehydrating in the shade and Dimitri manages to cadge a lift back to Litohoro with a swarthy brigand who drives a small truck up here every day bringing supplies for the mountain huts. Beyond here it goes on mules. I watch the driver throwing ouzo and beer down his throat as though he has heard a rumour that that there is to be a world shortage of the commodities and I wonder whether we shouldn’t walk back. Greek mountain roads are bad enough with a sober driver – this guy is off his tree. I silently curse the pope for demoting St Christopher from saint to ordinary mister and watch in silent terror as our driver throws another glass of ouzo and pint of beer down his gullet. He wipes his mouth and burps before falling off the bench onto the dusty floor. We look at each other glumly. Here we are in Paranoia in a beer hut – no beds – a drunk driver – a long journey back down the mountain to start all over again tomorrow.
‘Oi gevalt’ Dan says which I think is Yiddish for something very bad.

Posted in The Greek Odyssey|

TGO – chapter 2

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Chapter 2

The story so far – This column, accompanied by Dimitri and Daniel has just landed at Thessalonika as the joint Lapsed Catholic Comedian / Greek Restaurant Owner / Jewish Student expedition to the summit of Mount Olympus.

Day One – continued

We land at Thessalonika and are met by Tassos who is the brother of Nikos who works for Dimitri in the Manchester Taverna. Nikos has the mien of a young Greek monk and the young Greek monk wants it back.
Tassos takes us to a seafood cafe down by the docks in an old flour mill and treats us to a wonderful meal which includes something called eggplant shoes. How do they get the shoes off the eggplants I wonder? Do the eggplants put up a struggle? Dimitri is driving so doesn’t drink. Danny and I have a couple of circumspect glasses of excellent wine and feel the glow of the holiday suffuse us already – the mists of Manchester are forgotten and we bask in the Greek sunshine, even though we are down the docks under an old grain silo. Tassos and his wife and little daughter wave us off and we leave on our journey into the unknown full to the gills with eggplants shoes and other excellent Bubble nosh (Bubble = Bubble and Squeak – Greek) The Greeks are amazingly hospitable people – like the Irish only with garlic.
We wobble off to our hire car and set off for Litohoro our base for Olympus arriving as the afternoon sun strikes the mountains and from the plain we can see our goal the summit of Olympus, Mitikas – which I have rechristened Metaxa in honour of the Greek brandy of that name and also because I have trouble remembering names. Shakespeare might have had a vocabulary of 400,000 words but what good did it do him? Where is he now I ask? Dead is the answer. The summit is 10,000 ft. above sea level – which is where we are now and we aim to get to it in three days. From where we stand on the plain we can see quite clearly the fragmented summit with its great serried fangs. The temperature here on the plain is 34 centigrade. It’s going to be hot in that gorge – approaching forty.
We plan to walk the gorge to Prinoia and then on to the main refuge on the mountain the first day, spend a rest day on the hill then go for the summit on the third day returning that same day to Prinoia where we can hitch a lift from the roadhead back to Litohoro. Sea level to summit and back in three days – easy peasey.
We check in the hotel have a quick souvlaki then go to sit in the town square with a beer and watch the world go past.
I notice a raddled looking non-Bubble type staggering round the square and go over to talk to him. It turns out that he’s an American just come back from Olympus. Strangely for an American he has bad teeth. In that land of the Orthodontist and the whitewashed gnashers a man with teeth like a mouthful of dimps is as rare as an Eskimo with sunstroke. I ask him how long it took.
‘We were kind of loose man. Took a lot of wine and a lot of grass, We kinda got lost for a while – took us twelve hours to Paranoia (I decide that this is a much better name than Prinoia – and as it turns out much more fitting) and there was no way up or down so we slept out in the open. Like it was miserable man. Then man we walked to the refuge and stayed there two days we were like so out of it. They were so sorry for us they gave us a map for free. Then like we went to the summit.’
I had heard various stories about the extent of exposure on the last pitch to the summit and asked him how it was.
‘Man I held on with everything I had and three, four times I just froze on and prayed. No way am I ever going back up there.’ And he wandered off across the square. I saw him later on the balcony of his hotel with a couple of other Americans smoking rolls of wallpaper and drinking bottles of retsina.
I go back to Dimitri and Dan and take out the guide book. It’s one of the great series of guides published by Cicerone Press and written by Tim Salmon. The last pitch is described as a ‘moderate scramble’. I say nothing to the others and we buy fruit, nuts and bottles of water from a late night store and go to our rooms to pack and make ready for the morn and our assault on the Mountain Of The Gods.

Day 2 Egg Lollies

The man in the next bedroom has been up all night taking showers and turning the television on and off so I emerge red eyed and trembling from my pit at 7 a.m.
The landlady brings breakfast which is some bread and honey, a couple of hard boiled eggs that have been kept in the freezer so that they are now egg lollies and a glass of reconstituted orange juice. And this in a country that is sinking under the weight of its fresh oranges.
I bang on the door of Danny and Dimitri to hear answering grunts. Either they have been eaten by bears or they are not happy campers first thing in the morning.
By 8 they have had their egg lollies, we have paid the landlady, left some kit in storage and set off walking out of Litohoro. We follow the high street out of the village passing the town cemetery where an old lady pulls on a bell rope tolling a dirge as we walk past. I see this as an omen. I am later proved right.
We follow an aqueduct for a while then meet two men on a bridge who tell us to leave this easy route and follow a shepherds’ trail into the forest. The sun is burning down, the temperature already in the mid thirties. Within an hour we have climbed to the summit of an outcrop on the gorge’s flank at 650 metres sweating and breathless and stop to get our breath.
We can see Litohoro and the sea far behind us, before us the gorge and at it’s head the fangs of Metaxa, far distant we can still hear the bells of the cemetery.

Will our heroes get to Paranoia? Will the fangs of Metaxa be too much for them? Tune in next month for another dose of the same……

Posted in The Greek Odyssey|

TGO – chapter 1

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Chapter 1

‘Beware of Greeks bearing mountains’ my old gran used to say as she sat there sandpapering the budgie – I should have listened. Regular readers of this mishmash of home truths, rant and erotic fantasies will remember that a few months back I mentioned that I met a Greek friend of mine in the street and he had asked me to climb Mount Olympus with him. Those of you who were awake may also remember that I said yes. I should have been taken away there and then by the men in white coats to that nice hospital with the rubber walls where everybody is gentle with you. Here followeth a full and true account of what befelleth during those days even unto the third generation of lawyers, all of whom have had a good gander at the text in case of libel. The following is a true and honest transcript of my journal for those Greek Days.



Day Minus One

I arrive back in Manchester from Connemara at 4.30pm, and have to race to the YHA shop for a head torch and a Platypus water carrier both of which I left in Ireland and which no doubt the mice in my cottage will be playing with now. I go to Waterstones to hear Pete McCarthy reading from his book on Ireland McCarthy’s Bar which is very perceptive and very funny, then go for a pint with him. After a very abstemious two pints of Arthur Guiness’s Best Black Mischief I go home, leaving a pub before closing time for the first time since I was seventeen and got dragged off by a loose woman from the sixth form of Notra Dame Catholic Girls School. I spend all night paying bills, sorting post out and packing and finally crash 1 am.

Day One – Eggplant Shoes.

I lie awake all night aware that I have to be at the airport at 5.30 am trying my hardest to sleep for the four hours until the taxi comes but can’t. I am plagued with stupid fears – what if the alarm doesn’t go off? What if the taxi doesn’t come? What if they come knocking on the door for that library fine I never paid in 1958? What if I end up in the school playground wearing only a vest and it doesn’t cover my willy?
I doze off at 4.44. At 4.45 the alarm goes off. I shave my teeth and brush my face, dress erratically and adventurously in a Hawaiian shirt of the kind of pattern and hues that would induce an epileptic fit in a three toed sloth; baggy walking pants, boots and my Tilley hat and go downstairs to greet the dawn and the Pakistani taxi driver who asks me where I’m going.
I assume that the controller has told him I’m going to the airport and think that he means where am I going ultimately.
‘Mount Olympus.’ I answer.
He looks for it in his A to Z of Manchester then asks if its near the University. A few more misunderstandings later we head for the airport. I speak to him once or twice in the simple spirit of conservation, explaining that Olympus is where the Gods live but joking that they will probably be out. ‘That Zeus is a real character. He’s always getting dressed up as a swan and going off for a bit of rumpety pumpety with young Greek women.’ This I know as a fact from O Level Eng. Lit and Yeats’ poem Leda And The Swan.
The taxi driver is now totally convinced that he is carrying a madman and is really relieved when I load my trolley at the airport and vanish into a crowd of Northern Sun Seekers who are assembling for their annual two weeks of sun, sin, sand, sex and salmonella.
5.45 am Dimitri and Danny arrive. Dimitri is my friend the Greek cafe owner and Danny is his son, a tall, witty, twenty year old Jewish lad (his mum is Jewish and that makes Danny Jewish) who has the manners and mien of a gentle young rabbi.
So there we are, three men heading for a mountain, a Greek, a Jew and a lapsed Catholic Zen Buddhist Atheist with a serious Guinness habit.
I have a row with the check in girl who tells me our hand baggage will have to be weighed. She then tells us it is too heavy. It isn’t what she says but the way she says it, as though we are all three of us puppies that have just crapped in her best hat. She is very pretty but comes from one of the former Eastern Block states and has the manners of somebody who has been drummed out of the KGB for cruelty. I point out that two thousand pounds worth of cameras and lenses will not like travelling in the hold. She tells Dimitri I am shouting at her. I shout at Dimitri that I am not shouting at her – she is shouting at me. I go off to cool down and she shouts at Dimitri who has even more of a problem than me because his hand luggage contains a digital camera, a laptop computer, cables, chargers, batteries etc. and a mobile camera to transmit pictures of us on the top of Mount Olympus to the waiting world (actually the Barnsley Bugle and the Manchester Echo – a couple of free sheets where Dimitri advertises his Dolmades, Taramasalata and Salsa Evenings). Dimitri puts most of his stuff through as hold baggage. I take my cameras out of my hand luggage and put them round my neck. She weighs the lenses and they are ok. We get our boarding cards. I put my cameras back in the hand luggage and watch as our fellow passengers load up with several tons of duty free fags and booze each.
We go for a coffee at one of the food places. The coffee tastes of nothing. It is a vacuum, a negation of taste. Dimitri has a row with the cafe bar manager just to keep his hand in. So far Danny has had a row with nobody and we tell him he’ll have to buck up his ideas soon.

Next month We reach Paranoia after sundry adventures and discover that Dimitri’s Greek is worse than mine – but this is the least of our troubles.

Posted in The Greek Odyssey|

The Beach

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Environmentally destructive movie making

Please boycott ‘The Beach’

By viewing this film you are making a decision to ignore the environmental damage that this production has caused.

Filmed on Phi Phi Lei island in Thailand the filmmakers choose to ‘alter’ the beach on Maya Bay, by levelling sand dunes, digging up native plants and introducing palm trees. This was against the wishes of the local population, local government and businesses. It was also in a national park, which is meant to be protected from such destruction.

All this just to satisfy Hollywoods utopian vision of what a Thai beach should look like. Having rejected a number of exotic locations, Century Fox focussed in on Phi Phi Leh Island, a treasured National Park in Thailand, and one of the most beautiful, unspoiled islands in the Pacific. But their choice of May Bay on Phi Phi Leh didn’t quite fit Hollywood’s perception of paradise.

The Ao Nang Tambon Administration Organisation, which supervises the island, and local people took the Thai government and Fox to court on November 9 1999, but the trial could go on for years. Meanwhile the filmmakers stand to profit from their act of environmental
destruction. Don’t let them – boycott ‘The Beach’.

20th Century Fox went into production on “The Beach” early 1999. It is adapted from a best-selling book of the same name by Alex Garland. Ironically enough, it is the story of a group of hedonistic backpackers who discover a wild tropical beach and jealously guard its
natural beauty against invasion by other tourists.

See or contact: No Beach, PO Box 1TA, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, NE1 1TA

– Boycott ‘The Beach’.
– Forward this information to as many people as possible.
– Please write to Andrew MacDonald, Producer, c/o Carol Sewell, 10201 W.Pico Blvd. Building 89, Room 224, Los Angeles, CA 90035, and let him know what you think !
– Write to the local cinemas urging them not to show the film.


Posted in Eco|


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The Worst Irish Joke Of All


A guide to Dingle Disneyland

Dingle, Co. Kerry 17th March 1991

There is a chunk of rock here in a corner of a small field, it is marked with a cross within what looks like a torc and it is all that is left of The Church of The King of The World’s Son.
St. Brendan left from here in his skin boat to sail to America, pushing out between the jutting horns of black cliffs into the Atlantic swell. Some of the greatest pieces of Irish vernacular prose were made here and you can hardly walk a spit without treading on a saint’s grave or the walls of a Celtic fort or church.It is one of the few Gaeltacht areas where the first language of many of the people is Irish and where scholars and Irish speakers from the outside world come to learn and refresh their language.It is a land of the rarest of beauties, a land of soaring skies and bottle green seas, a land of hill forts, mountain ridges and rare bogland and mountain flora.

And now,it is going to be turned into a theme park, for facing out towards the Blaskett Islands, towards the Dead Man,as the locals call the island that looks for all the western world like a man on his back in the muttering sea; there, at the tip of one of the most beautiful peninsulas in the world the Irish Government through its Office of Public Works is to build an “Interpretative Centre”, eighty five metres long and served by an eleven metres wide road and a coach and car park for six coaches and a hundred cars. And all in the name of mass tourism.The interpretative centre will deal with the history and prehistory of the area and in particular the story of The Blaskett Islands a group of islands just off the coast of Kerry where Tomas O’ Criomhthain wrote “The Islandman” and Peig Sayers “An Old Woman’s Reflections”.It is typical of developments that are taking place all over the world as part of what is now known as “The Heritage Industry”. We no longer have Yorkshire’s North Riding or Dorset or Howarth, we have Herriot Country, Hardy Country and Bronte Country and our landscape and history is robbed from us, polished up and sanitised and sold back to us in Disneyland packages.

The site chosen for the Dingle Peninsula development is Dunquin, a savagely beautiful out-thrusting, scattered with brightly painted and neatly kept and, in the main, new cottages and farms. Near to many of the modern cottages and farmhouses you will see the ruins of older buildings, sodden turf roofs sag and gape and doors swing in the wind opening on empty rooms.In many cases these were the old houses, allowed to decay when the new were built, but in far too many other cases the ruins mark the emigration of a people who over centuries of oppression and economic exploitation were forced to leave and follow in Brendan’s footsteps across the Great Pond. One of the arguments therefore, used in favour of the centre is that it will provide jobs.This is a mistruth.It will provide,some estimate, as little as four jobs, the most optimistic estimate is six. Louis Mulcahey came here 17 years ago and established a pottery centre that employs twenty local people. He is an Irish speaker and insists that his workers use Irish at work. He has committed himself and his family fully to the idea of regeneration and continuity within the Gaeltacht. He had planned to extend the pottery this year creating ten more jobs. This project has been dropped and he has no intention of expanding should the centre go ahead.

This, and many other protests, the Office Of Public Works refer to as “some rumblings”. Nobody that I spoke to in the Dingle area was for the scheme at all.To most of them it was seen at best as an eyesore, at worst as an ecological and aesthetic disaster. A typical response came from James and Peggy Flahive who run a good old fashioned bar on the harbour front at Dingle – ” ‘Twill do the place no good at all.We like the tourists coming here, we’ve met some very nice people through the years, but there’s enough coming now.In the summer you wouldn’t be able to move at all for them.And to destroy that lovely coast at Dunquin – it’s all madness.”
Local feeling in truth was mixed at the beginning but as people have begun to realise what the development really will mean, opinion has swung around. The developers have as ever played the local-jobs versus elitist-conservationists ticket to the full.But the truth is that what jobs the project does create will be few and seasonal.The net gainers will be the tour operators who will thunder their clients along the narrow road to Slea Head in their coaches and the large Hotels that can cater for the big groups of tourists.The mass tourism industry world-wide does little for local populations.The hotels and other blocks in the infra-structure are usually foreign owned, or certainly not owned by locals.It was estimated, when I was in Nepal recently, that all the major hotels and tourist lodges were owned by foreigners or the royal family.In one Kathmandu hotel,the carpets came from Finland, the air conditioning from America,the kitchen equipment from Britain and Italy, the computers from Japan, the bathrooms from Holland and the cement and steel for the fabric of the building from India.The only local input was in the cheap labour that built and serviced the hotel.The manager was an Austrian.

Architecturally the Dingle Interpretative Centre building is no great shakes and is certainly not original, although like all planning developments of its kind it is supported by a well presented proposal puffing up its aims and aspirations with reverential references to the Celtic tradition.
The “design concept is both a symbol and an abstraction of the Homeric/Blaskett connection.”
The Homeric/Blaskett connection, in case you are confused,is based on the writings of one George Thompson ( The Prehistoric Aegean 1949 ) who saw in the speech and the story-telling of the islanders an echo of the Homeric style.From there a major quantum leap of thought takes place that sees Celtic spirals, labyrinths and minotaurs as all being somehow related.In best school of architecture prose it then goes on to tell us that one of the rooms will be devoted to the tragedies associated with the sea.”The slate floor will have the names of lost fishermen inscribed into them.”(sic)

Roughly the length of six bungalows, flat roofed and totally alien to any of the the vernacular architecture of West Kerry, the main building will be a time tunnel pointing out to the Blasketts which the visitor will walk along looking at photographs, charts and artifacts until eventually coming to the great window that points out towards the Dead Man.There will be an audio visual theatre ,toilets and a cafe. The Cardiff Dock Scheme already has a similar theme telescope that you walk along to a huge window that also points out at the water, presumably with a sign saying “This is the Water” in case a Sun reader needs it interpreting. Perhaps in Cardiff Docks such a folly is acceptable,here in one of the worlds sublime landscape areas it is nothing more than six bungalows and a massive car park.

Though the Office of Public Works claim it will be screened from all but the closest view that is in fact not true.Having walked there only this week I can assure you,it will be highly visible from the hills above.The site will cover forty seven acres of a treeless valley close to the seas edge, the development will be aggressively ugly, an arrogant pustule on a fragile and lovely shore.There is a disused creamery building back up in the village that would be better used for something like this, if it has to be built at all.

I deeply deplore the exploitive Disneyland attitude towards cultures and landscapes that this project represents.In the books I’ve written on walking in Britain and trekking in India and Nepal I’ve tried to make a distinction between “soft” or “green” tourism and “mass” or “hard” tourism.Green tourism walks,cycles or treks and leaves things very much as they were,stays in the homes of the local people in bed and breakfast accommodation, village lodges or small hotels,thus contributing directly to the local economy.Hard tourism exploits and destroys and drags everything down to the lowest common denominator.It offers instant gratification, whipping people round the land in air-conditioned coaches sealed off from anything real, and like anything instant, it is a child of whim and fashion. As the Spanish have already discovered, the mass tourist industry is notoriously fickle and their own destroyed coast line is now a sad concrete monument to the touro-dollar.Things easy got are little thought of and the junk food mentality applied to precious areas of the world cheapens and ultimately destroys them.Let me tell you a true story.

Some years ago I was in Dublin in the library of Trinity College. queuing to look at the book of Kells with my children. We waited in line shuffling forward slowly to see what is perhaps the greatest illuminated manuscript in the Christian world.Behind us was a group of thirty or so Burberry-clad Americans , recently debouched from a tour bus.Some ten places ahead of us in the queue was one of their group, a maveric who had sprinted ahead of the guide.He glanced at the book for ten seconds and on his way out passed the group.
“What is it Jim?” one of them called to him.
“Oh it’s just some old book.” he said and scuttled off to buy his plastic shamrock , his lucky leprechaun mug and genuine blackthorn shillelagh.
Is that what the Irish Government want? Coachload after coachload of weary and vista-bloated tourists queuing up to walk down a time tunnel calling out – “What is it Jim?” to be told – “Oh it’s just some old island.”?

I may be old fashioned or stupid or both but I’ve always felt that if you want to interpret alandscape you buy a map or a guide or book and ramble and dander and gander and meet people and talk to them and sit and take things in at your own pace.Can’t people read anymore? Does everything have to be done at the level of the average Sun reader?Why do planners and developers insult our intelligence so?

One of the problems of course is endemic in the very process that supports planners and developers who feel that they have to be seen to be doing something to justify their existence and are constantly looking around for schemes like this. Interpretative centres are ideal since they attract Euro-money [ in this case there is a hurry to spend it since it has to be used before 1992] and are constructed on clear sites that don’t tax the architect or planners imagination anything like as much as the re-development of run down areas.One of the quotes from a meeting of the planning officers and the architect involved in the Dunquin scheme that took place on the 17th January 1991 speaks volumes

“This project was accelerated due to the availability of European Community Structural Funds and the deadline for spending same is the summer of 1992 in this case, acording to Mr Fadden” (O.P.W. Administrator).
The report then goes on
“Mr O Connor said that when the O.P.W. had completed its proposals the project scheme spent a long day (my italics) at the Foundation A.G.M in November.”

A long day! to come up with a scheme that will destroy part of the coastline for ever and have who knows what impact on the local culture and ecology! The local community have asked for money to build a theatre in Dingle that will serve local schools and cultural groups.Plays in Irish would be performed there as well as serving as a venue for local and visiting musicians and theatre groups.Such a centre would be a real contribution to the Gaeltacht, one that would enhance and dignify Irish culture instead of fossilising and demeaning it, encouraging the tradition to live instead of turning it into a peepshow.
I’ve spent a great part of the last three years travelling in India,Nepal, the U.S.A. and Europe.I’ve seen the impact of mass tourism on many countries and it’s not nice.Cultures are demeaned and repackaged for the gawpers and souvenir hunters and ultimately the local peoples lose respect for their own language and culture, grasping in almost every case at the Coca-Colanisation that is offered in its stead.There is a village called Tatopani on the trek in to Annapurna Base camp, somebody has portered a television and video cassette player all the wat from Kathmandu through the jungles and up the trail to the village.A water powered generator provides the juice for the machines and western trekkers sit, their faces lit by the flickering screen watching Sylvester Stallone and Clint Eastwood while naked saddhus on their way to the holy shrines at Muktinath trail past the lodge door.

If there is any place at all for “Interpretative Centres” then it is within the already existing developments of towns and villages and not in areas that are in reality not Irish Heritage Sites, not European Sites but World Heritage Sites.Planning permission for such developments is not needed since the Office of Public Works is exempt from such restrictions and centres are also planned for the Burren – the biggest Area of limestone pavement in Europe, for the stunningly beautiful Wicklow Hills on a site where each year the stags meet to fight at the commencement of the rutting season, for County Meath at Newgrange Burial Chamber and for Kinsale. Plans to build one on the monastic settlement of Skellig Michael, a fierce fang of rock thrusting out of the Atlantic off the coast of Kerry, have I am told been dropped, though there are still murmurings about building a Skelligs Interpretative Centre on the coast, funnelling people out towards the islands.

The label of elitist is thrown at any of us who dare to raise our heads above the parapet and hint that we should leave things be and that mass tourism will destroy the very thing that people come to see.But it’s a cheap jibe.
When I’m no longer able to climb Brandon Mountain or Pen y Ghent then don’t build me a chair lift, when my legs won’t take me over the Shingo La then don’t build me a heli pad,leave the wild places be; and when I’m so ga-ga that I can’t look at a map or read a book then don’t build me an interpretive centre.
When the Grand Canyon National Park was created a developer, worried that nobody had so far built anything commercial down in the canyon, asked Roosevelt what should be done about it. He just turned quietly and said –
“Leave it alone you’ll never improve on it.”

Opposition in Ireland has been slow in coming and very often people who stood up and criticised the projects have been verbally abused and [ in the Burren in particular] physically threatened. A hold has been put on some of the projects for financial reasons but according to reports the OPW is as firmly committed to building the centres as ever, and once finance has been arranged plan to go ahead with all of them.

I intended this piece to be measured and reasonable, the sort of stuff you read in submissions to sub-committees of sub-committees. But I’m sad and I’m angry. The spivs and the developers will, if we let them, cover Paradise with concrete and charge us a pound a head to see it.
“This way for your lucky plastic harps, trips on the fun cloud this way, get your stick of Paradise Rock here.” What right have the planners and developers to take our culture and history from us and sell it back to us turned into a Blackpool side show? Blackpool is fine in its own way, but leave it where it is, don’t import it to all the beautiful corners of the world and please don’t tell me when I’m having “fun”.

I love Ireland with a fierce and protective love and I’ve always hated all Paddywhackery of the leprechaun, Blarney Stone and shillelagh kind. My mother’s family came from Ireland, largely from Tipperary and Dublin, I was educated by Irish teachers in the main until I was eighteen and have returned here regularly, cycling and walking, filming and making radio programmes for nearly thirty years.It is, I believe, one of the last civilized places in the world, the last place in these islands with such a wealth of music and dance, such a living body of storytellers and poets, such a tradition of hospitality and such a wonderful unspoilt landscape.I’ve devoted a great deal of my life to trying to disabuse people of the racist lies inherent in the Irish joke. Isn’t it ironic that in the year that Dublin is named Cultural capital of Europe the the Irish Government, by these ignorant and ill- conceived developments, looks as though it is about to prove Bernard Manning right. Why not go the whole hog and have the people of Dingle dress up as Darby O’ Gill and the Little People, Cuchulain, the Tain, Queen Maeve, the Banshee and Peig Sayers. I’m sure there’s Euro-Money or Disney Money in it.

To the Office of Public works and all their gombeens and tricksy men I say “mallacht an fhile ar tu!”0.

The curse of the poet on you

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A Fish Factory in Heaven

There is a cave system in New Mexico that contains deep within its heart the most beautiful limestone formations that have been discovered so far in the world. There is flowstone and stalactites, cave pearls and columns, vast chambers and minute grottoes. The system runs for miles and more, it is thought, has yet to be discovered. The air from the outside world moves through these caves in mysterious ways so that the stone in some places has been spun and sculpted and moulded into delicate formations some as fine almost as hair, others, folded and fluted like the petals of flowers. And because of the mineral content of the underground water that has caused all of this, the colours of the formations are so bright and so varied that they beggar any attempt at description. Imagine if you can a stone tulip, a pale burgundy colour and so fine that the light from a torch will shine through it. Imagine curtains of honey coloured flowstone twelve feet in length hanging from the lip of a pool and straws of pure white stone hanging from the roof of a chamber so fine that your breath will move them and clustered so thickly that to walk amongst them would be to shatter and destroy them. Then imagine that there is a great iron door at the entry to this system and that it is bolted and locked and that admission is granted only to a few.
What a wonderful tourist attraction that cave would be. Can’t you see it? Walkways and coach parks and burger stands and toilets and an interpretative centre. This is a democratic world what right has anybody to stop Wilf and Daisy from Walsall or Kurt and Anna from Cologne seeing one of the great wonders of the world? The answer is that if the cave system were developed it would be destroyed and the very reason for going there would be lost. The earliest explorers of the system discovered very early on that their breath and body warmth alone was causing changes to the formations, that mud brought in on their boots to pure white chambers was fouling the pristine stone and would not be washed off. Instead the iron oxides in the mud dyed the stone and the limestone snow field was sullied and its purity destroyed. The cave is only visited now by speliologists pushing further into the system and geologists researching and photographing the caves. I have never been there I have seen the pictures and that’s enough and that’s the way it should be.
Of course the local tourist development agencies and private developers gnashed their teeth and jumped up and down at the thought of all those millions of lost dollars but there is nothing they can do, the cave is closed.

Near the village of Killnaboy, in the Karst Burren region of County Clare in Ireland, a network of narrow country lanes leads you up into a high land of shimmering white limestone pavements and stone walls. It is a land that one of Cromwell’s officers described as having ‘not enough wood to hang a man, not enough earth to bury a man nor enough water to drown a man’. If you stand close to the centre of this area and look around you it is as though the world has been turned to stone. It flows away in all directions, a few bushes and thorns somehow clutching to the rock, bright flowers shining in the clefts and slits. In certain lights, those wet sunny blustery lights of early Spring and late Autumn in particular, it can seem as though the stone is moving, a sea flowing around you. In the heart of this land lies Mullaghmore a limestone mountain, it’s bedding planes jutted up at the angle they were tilted at when this land buckled and moved millennia ago. Under Mullaghmore plants that are normally only found in the Arctic grow alongside sub-tropical plants. It is the only place in the world where this happens. For the Burren is not a barren place it is truly a rock garden, a garden in the rock. The scars and slashes in the stone hold rank grass and scrub and cattle can be grazed here all the year round, for the stone acts like a giant battery soaking up the warmth of the sun and holding it so that the plants that grow in its folds and scars can flourish beyond the normal growing season.
But Man has found his place here too. From the first wanderers in this land who followed the retreating ice as the glaciers melted, to the farmers who live and work the land today, Man has built and tended and pulled down and moved on. Burial chambers, ring forts, booleys, slab tombs, early Celtic churches, shepherds shelters, cottages and farms, all built from the bones of the land. There are holy wells and churches, burial grounds and standing stones. This has been a place for hermits, for men and women who came to seek their gods away from the rush of the world, a place for contemplation, for the soul to drink in the silence of the stone, a place of great spirituality.
And now the Irish Office of Public Works wants to build an Interpretative Centre there with a shop, a car park, a coach park, toilets and audio visual theatre. They will build it in the style in which they have built the centre at Dún Chaoin, in the Dingle peninsula. It will be massive, it will have thick solid wood doors and there will be bright brass and tiles and lots of glass for the spirit of the place will be nothing if not monumental. But it will be a monument not to the soul or the spirit but to the kind of mind that sees a land only as something to be exploited and developed. The centre will urbanise a whole area, the tiny roads will be choked with coaches and the peace of this most beautiful and special place, special not just to Clare or Ireland but to the world, will be gone. It will provide fewer jobs than a hairdressers shop and will destroy for ever the soul of that part of Ireland. For, of course, once the centre has been built there will be clamour for wider and better roads to get the coach loads of tourists into the place, just as there is in the Dingle peninsula at the present where they are screaming out for an end to that ‘ horrid little road from Tralee to Dingle, which impairs access to our treasures.’ (Seosaimh ó Conchuir Letter to the Irish Times 14/09/94).
Millions of punts have already been spent on the development, the builders have already dumped their cabins and cleared a way in for their machinery and put up their signs. But the site is quiet just for now because the Burren Action Group, a handful of local and national voices crying out at the folly of this development were listened to for a moment. They weren’t asking that the centre not be built, only that it should be built on the edge of a village, tucked in amongst existing buildings and made relevant to the community not to the monumental aspirations of the architects and developers of the OPW. They were ignored of course for the OPW sees itself answerable to no one, noither in Ireland, nor in the world outside. The BAG scored a small victory when they forced the OPW to apply for planning permission for the scheme which would probably have led to a public enquiry. But recently a high court judge pronounced in favour of the developers and the scheme is on again, though as of the end of August when I was there last nothing much had been done. The objectors are almost helpless now, they mortgaged their homes to fight the OPW won one battle and then had the decision overturned. It is hard to see what more they can do. And they are not powerful people, the seven plaintiffs who are fighting the OPW in the courts are Lelia Doolan head of the Irish Film Board; P.J.Curtis writer music producer and broadcaster whose family have live in the Burren for five hundred years; Finola Mc Namara, a teacher; James Howard and Patrick McCormack two farmers who live beneath Mullaghmore; Dr Emer Colleran from Galway University and Dr John O’Donaghue a catholic priest and poet who ministers in Galway. And these people and their allies and supporters have been ridiculed by some, verbally attacked and threatened by others and accused at various times of being ‘communists, homosexuals, drop-outs, blow-ins’ and most heinous of sins ‘intellectuals.’ I have fought similar battles to theirs here in England and have had punches, bomb threats and abusive anonymous letters. It hasn’t stopped me fighting but it has made me very careful about what pubs I drink in and where I do my shopping. The same thing has happened to some of the BAG. It’s the price you pay for speaking up and when I hear of things like this I’m reminded of that lovely line of Seamus Heaney’s ‘whatever you say, say nothing’. But of course we do sayn and we do speak up, and we take the consequences, though we hardly think them fair.
Irish politics often operates at the level of horse trading and sifting through the tons of verbiage and shenanigans that have surrounded the Mullaghmore project makes the Augean Stables look like a hi tech kitchen. Local political interests and the OPW’s determination to save face at whatever cost makes it almost certain that the centre will be built there under Mullaghmore. Nothing will make them even consider moving the site to Killnaboy or Corofin or one of the other villages. What is it that makes them ignore the opinion of botanists and environmentalists, writers, artists, climbers, walkers and musicians not just from Ireland but from all over the world who see this development as an ecological and spiritual disaster? It is hard to see how a country like Ireland which has produced more than its share of the worlds great art, from the beautiful work of the goldsmiths of the La Tene period, through the scribes of the great books to Synge, O Casey, Joyce and Yeats, could not only come up with such a crass idea but could embrace it as though it were somehow a symbol of the new Ireland. I don’t believe that we should lock up the land of the Burren like that cave in New Mexico, only that it be treated with more love and respect. There has been a great deal of local support for this project because it is seen as an answer to the unemployment that has driven millions of the Irish (my own people included) overseas. It will provide less than half a dozen jobs for only six months of the year and the spin off into the local economy will be minimal. The coaches that bring the tourists in will take them out again to the big hotels and the towns like Limerick and Ennis. Siting it in a local village will at least give it a local dimension and might generate some income for the village. Sticking it under Mullaghmore means people will go and look and leave. The three most often asked questions in interpretative centres are ‘Where’s the toilets? Where can I get a cup of tea?’ and ‘Where’s the way out?’
I love Ireland. My mother’s family came from Tipperary and Dublin, I was brought up in a strong Irish Catholic household and was educated until I was eighteen by Irish men and women. I have travelled, walked, played music, filmed and written in Ireland for thirty years and it breaks my heart to see its beauty being destroyed like this.
I was walking in West Kerry earlier this summer and at the end of one walk I stood looking at the great ugly green OPW concrete blockhouse that stands on that once soulful shore at Dún Chaoin and a Danish woman asked me ‘How did they let them build that fish factory on such a lovely place?’. I have no answer to that question but please God let’s hope Mullaghmore doesn’t get another fish factory.

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