THE ROAD GOES ON FOREVER

Rain coming over the mountains

We eventually made it up to Rosehall by mid-afternoon yesterday. Compared with the rest of the journey from the UK it was uneventful. Nevertheless the final part of the trip had to be made by taxi, as the welcoming party from Rosehall had long since departed the airport. On our way up through the rainforested mountains I saw very little had changed since our last visit. However, the vast quantity of rain that had fallen in the last 24 hours and was still falling on other parts of the island, had turned the already precariously steep and worn road into a debris strewn, slippery minefield. Water cascaded down the roadside, carrying with it the flotsam and jetsam of the forest. Red mud formed in puddles on its way to the sea which we could see was itself turning the colour of the forest floor as we looked down from the mountain side. Above us the road snaked upwards, steeply twisting and turning like an enraged serpent. The taxi driver excitedly pointed out distant waterfalls which he had never seen before, emerging from the rocks and plunging downwards. On we went, round the multiple hairpin bends, through the meandering villages and upwards, sometimes seemingly vertically towards our destination and a warm welcome.

You made it then!

We slept for 11 hours solid and woke to a bright warm morning. There were a number of people already in the house to welcome us and over breakfast we were made to feel at home. Cousin Phil, a sprightly 80 year old volunteered to drive us down into town so that I could do the food shopping which was my first job. So again I found myself, accompanied by Fred and Phil, making the terrifying trip down the mountain. More than once the clouds loomed in the distance and we prepared for the rain which came down in a torrents and flooded the road, sending water streaming down faster than we were actually moving. The car windows had to be closed and inside Phil's ancient Toyota the temperature and humidity slowly rose. We met carts and trucks coming in the other direction, hogging the narrow road on hairpin bends as if safe in the knowledge that they were the only road users. Curses and vexations were heaped upon these transgressors of whatever highway code they have up here by Phil and Fred from the rear seat. Horns blared frequently as suicidal climbing gradients, perched on the edge of a dooming drop, were negotiated time and again. We passed through shanty villages being rinsed clean by the torrents of water, their inhabitants sheltering under whatever was to hand to avoid a drenching. Forlorn fruit sellers, their fruits in ancient looking carts, watching helplessly as their wares were washed to a pap.

Eventually, we reached Kingstown which itself had not been spared the rains. The newly emerging sun causing a humid, damp atmosphere. As usual the town was crowded with the comings and goings of life. Packed dollar vans speeding by, their passengers hanging out the windows like prisoners in an overcrowded jail, market hawkers in full cry selling an incredible assortment of seemingly useless paraphernalia, cars, old and new jamming the narrow streets, tooting while their drivers cursed anything that moved or not, music blaring from the countless yet individual bootleg cd stalls, a different tune from tinny speakers for every passer by, and all the time the ceaseless coming and going of people, criss crossing the streets, shouting salutations, meeting and greeting, sometimes holding up traffic to do so. And as time passed, the sun was regaining it's superiority in the sky above us and the lying rainwater was steaming away to the heavens.

This is Kingstown, capital city of St. Vincent, getting there, being there, never ever anything less than an experience.

DAY 2 LOUSY LIAT

Woke this morning to the sound of the early travelers turning up at the airport. I am, at the moment, reading ' A Helmet For My Pillow' by Robert Leckie, an account of one Marine's Pacific Campaign in the Second World War. In my case however, it was 'A Rucksack For Pillow'. Yes, we spent the night in Barbados airport, admittedly a far less daunting place than Okinawa Island but nevertheless fraught with unexpected twists and turns.

The excitement started just after the last Blog Entry. We made our way to the appointed departure gate for the short ride to St. Vincent. The rain continued to hammer down and the visibility was poor to say the least. Now for those with experience of Liat Airlines will know it takes a mere change in the direction of the wind to create panic and cancellation. Their planes never leave on time and the service is so laid back it makes JJ Cale look hyperactive! There was however, a break in the weather. We were herded onto the twin propeller aircraft that was to complete the first part of our journey. And there we sat until the captain informed us that due to a lightning strike at St. Vincent which disabled the runway lights, we were going nowhere. At that point Liat's Customer Care Service kicked in. In other words no-one knew what the f---was going on!

Eventually we found our bed for the night and following an evening meal that made the last airport delicacy I was forced to endure at Kuala Lumpur last spring, seem like the finest offering from a King's table. We tried to get some shut eye ready for the morning madness as we would attempt to find air transportation that 'might be available' to get us to St. Vincent.

So as I write we are back in the departure lounge. How we got here I don't know. This Liat mob would do well to take a look at the fine job Air Asia did with it's stranded customers at Kuala Lumpur. No text messages here. Not even a normal message. The staff at the check in queue would struggle to get a job sweeping shit in Fred Carno's circus. The only way we made it through is because I had my eye on an English businessman who somehow evaded the so called queue and presented himself at the desk. How he did this I am not sure but in a very loud voice I enquired how he had made it to check in. He gave me the 'zip across the mouth sign' and I understood. I, having made my point and liable to make a fuss if were denied access to check in, glanced at the check in clerk. Unspoken understanding flashed between us. If he was going, being well behind us in the queue, so was I and Trish and Charlotte. Not worth the aggro dear!

Now all we have to do is get on the plane, get to St. Vincent and get up to Rosehall. The journey's not over yet!

BARBADOS

A Virgin Club Lounge Breakfast!

At the time of writing we are sitting in the departure lounge at Barbados airport waiting for our connecting flight to St. Vincent. Outside, under ever darkening skies, the rain is lashing down, indeed it is coming with such force that it is bouncing up from the tarmac. There is precious little chance of a take off any time soon.

The day had begun so well, apart from poor Charlotte getting in trouble on the the train down to Gatwick. She had a bought a ticket, in good faith, using her Young Person's Railcard, which had unfortunately expired. She has another one at home, but she has not been there over the last week to collect it. No matter, First Capital's officious ticket man was having none of it. What a pity he didn't realise the massive favour I had just done his company. There were no trains in or out of Harlington yeaterday (Sunday) I know that because our return from Scotland included a taxi ride from Leagrave where the Luton Airport special deposited us with no explanation or assistance. They put a helpful notice on the ticket machine to inform customers of this. That notice was still there this morning, leaving a fair few puzzled commuters staring at it, as no one thought to put a date on it. It simply read ' no trains in or out of this station today'. I ripped it down to the relief of said commuters who then caught their usual train. How many of them I wondered had turned tail and either gone home, got out the car or hired a taxi before I got there.

Still, the uselessness is not confined to England. Here in Barbados eliciting either help or information is like Russian Roulette. Some airport officials are helpful but others regard questions as an interference to their day, which looks as if it consisits of slouching up against one wall or another.

But I digress. Upon arrival at Gatwick we were whisked up to The Virgin Club Lounge for a fancy breakfast, a surprise from Charlotte, via one of her friends who works for Virgin. It was lovely. A bloody Mary or two and a full cooked but posh breakfast which Rustan would have for sure added to his food photo collection was most welcome as we waited for our flight to Barbados.

So here we sit, waiting for news of our short hop over to St. Vincent. The rain hammers down and the personel have to work a bit harder to entertain and inform the punters. I can smell the sweat from here.

SWENGLAND PARTY

Thanks to everyone who made it to the Swengland Midsommer party. it's a same that Rustan could not make it but we had special Guest Of Honour Maurice Dawson to present the prizes. It was also good to have the Women's World Cup quarter finals playing live at the same time, and guess what? England went out on penalties AGAIN!!! I made Rustan's signature dish< Jansson's Frestelse and the consensus of opinion was that it was pretty good. But not as good surely as Rustan's?

John Williams accepts son Paul's trophy and T-Shirt

Cheers Rustan-Schnaps Time

Natalie Ware-Kit Kats Team Of The Week

JD-Team Of The Month

Maurice

Liam O'Donnell-Division Cup Winner

Williams again

Wooden Spoon-Viv Stephenson

O'Donnell accepts Manager Of The Year trophy on behalf of Alan Wilson

JEFF BECK IN GOTEBORG

It's been raining all day. Got caught in it in town but managed to dodge the showers and cycle the four miles back to Merlin's without getting too wet. Talk around the table at the Bio Cafe from Conny, Rustan Alan and Annika was about the up and coming gig. Al had recently found out that Narada Michael Walden was on drums and that had filled him with acute excitement and a struggle to sing (intune) any one of Narada Michael's hits from the eighties. I was also interested to see Jason Rebello on keyboards and yet another female bassist in the band. But the clouds gathered and, after consulting his smartphone Conny informed us that the rainy weather was set for the evening. Jeff Beck outside in the tree garden suddenly took on a new significance. Still what is it they say ' there is no bad weather, just bad clothing.' What a pity then I had ejected the rainjacket sensibly placed in my luggage by Trish just before I left home.

Merlin had bought a ticket for son Leo, himself a keen 19 year old guitarist, as well as himself and we were soon on the way to the designated meeting place in the middle of the city, a restaurant where a pre gig dinner would be eaten. Unusually, the vegetarian option on the otherwise good looking menu was rank. Luckily I had in the day partaken of a LEFIN BREAKFAST and for those familiar with the fare provided on these occasions, you will understand that even at 6 in the evening I was still not hungry.

Earlier in the day I had again met Conny, who had been with us on the last Goteborg gig, Jo Bonamassa last October. He came up from the seaside town of Varby and for those who don't know Conny he is a booze expert, or rather, he knows what he likes! This time he brought with him 6 bottles of Innis and Gunn Oak Rum Aged Bitter ABV 7.4%. This is an exeptionally unusual and pleasant beer from Scotland.http://www.innisandgunn.com/thebeer_newproducts.htm and whilst quaffing it, I made a mental note to ask Doug at The Old Sun in Halington to include it at one of his beer festivals.

We were soon all turning up at the Treegarden complete with umbrellas for the gig. There were quite a lot of umbrellas in evidence and we managed to form a 'tortoise' of them in the style of the Roman Army. Although they tended to use shields rather than umbrellas I would imagine. As usual there was the unfortunate support band who received a smattering of polite applause from the audience and a hundred or so thoughts of 'get off!' it brought me to wonder if I had EVER seen a support band that was any good at a big gig. But of course I have. In 1968 Cream played at The Albert Hall supported by first an unknown band called Yes and then Rory Gallagher's Taste. Then of course there was Stan Clarke at The Hammersmith Odeon in 1979 supported by Phil Collin's Brand X. Yes I did say Phil Collins. Jazz rock enhusiasts check out their back catalogue. But here in the Tree Garden whoever they were this time were on a hiding to nothing, and they were crap.

But then it stands to reason that you wouldn't want a band better than you are are going on before you would you?. It happened to me once, at Eddies Bar in Luton. The Cheats were supported by a really stonking funk band complete with brass section who really got the audience moving. At the end of their set they were encoured but could not comply because the headline band were due on. Us. We took to the stage and immediately launched into our set. What a pity Chris Brookes our lead guitarist and definitely the worse for wear, played the opening chords to a song he thought we were playing. Still it's happened to the best. Witness Monterey. Main headline band The Who took a look at the bill and saw who was on before them......The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Townshend had seen Jimi in a club in London and was so impressed he refused to let The Experience go on before The Who. The rest is history and the toss of a coin.

Anyhow, what of Jeff Beck? Jeff took to the stage and played a fantastic set. Jeff still looks as he did when I first saw him years ago in a pub in Peckham, He's 67 next week! He looks as if he could slot right into a band such as The Rolling Stones. He even looks like a Ronnie Wood or Keith Richard. I do believe that some years ago he was asked to join The Stones because of his look. I mean, what about the guitar playing? Forget the looks. Jeff is a pure guitar maestro. From day one album one his guitar has torn up his rivals and spat them out helpless. No-one plays like him with his imagination, personal technique and style. His white Strat was rocked and twisted all night, notes wrung out (get it) from it as if it were being subjected to the ultimate in guitar torture, but what a player. The rest of the band did their part too, although the bassist was not a patch on his previous Tal Wakenfield. Highlights were a splendid version of Little Wing and Scatterbrain and also the fact that no-one shouted out for 'Hi Ho Silver Lining!'

As we left the gig and walked up the rain spattered street, there was a queue of cute young girls and hopeful blokes forming outside the Tree Garden. I asked Leo what they were there for. He informed me they were waiting for the late night club to open. When I enquired why a virile young man of 19 was walking in the opposite direction with two old gits he replied, 'naaaa they play crap music in there'. Next gig for Leo and his dad? Stan Webb's Chicken Shack. Good old Merlin.

Check out some great pictures from the gig by clicking this link to Rustan's blog. (he's got a better camera than me) and some video as well.

http://afreemanintown.blogspot.com/2011/06/en-regnig-kvall.html

GOTEBORG

Arrived in Gote last Wednesday and it's testament to the good times one can have in this fine, fine, city that it is only now, Saturday morning, the day of the main reason for the visit-Jeff Beck live, that I find time to update. I'm staying at Merlin's and I managed to convince him that his bike would be safe in my hands for the next few days. It's great cyling here. All over the city are safe and secure paths, resplendent with their own traffic signals. I can traverse the six kilometres from Merlin's into the heart of the city, Rustan's place, in perfect safety, as long as when you cross The Avenue in the middle of town, you remember that trams have the right of way! The rest of the time it's isolated two way bike paths where cars are occasional crossers but ALWAYS have to give way to those on two wheels.

Goteborg has changed very little since I lived here in 1987-90. The women are just as beautiful, the pace of life is as sedate compared to the manic crush of the UK and the pubs and restaraunts as warm and inviting whether one sits outside or in. Not for of the first time did I wish today as I pedalled in, that I had not returned to the UK in 1990 when I had, to all intents and purposes established myself in this fine country.

But if you listen to the Swedes not all is well. They have an immigration problem. They have always been a welcoming country but it is turning into a familar scene apparantly, with immigrants refusing to abide by the laws of the country and wanting special considerations with regard to their everyday living. They reward the Swedish people here in Goteborg, with an escalation of organised gun and knife crime. The only positive to all of this is that they are killing themselves on a weekly basis. Long may that continue if it is to continue that is. It would be better for it to stop of course but the human condition seems to prevent that. A world wide problem here in little old Goteborg.

But let's return to the positive. The nights a long at the moment as midsummer approaches with the daylight fading at about 11.15 The music scene is alive and well here. I am here to see Jeff Beck tonight. The concert takes place in the 'tree garden' with an estimated crowd of about 300 expected. In uk. It was the Albert Hall, no choice there. We are excited about the concert tonight. He played a good gig in Malmo last night and has Jason Rebello on keyboards and Narada Michael Walden on drums. Last year it was Eric Clapton followed by Jeo Bonamassa in October, so the first gig in Sweden this year should be one to remember.

More tomorrow, with, hopefully some pictures from the gig.

BRISTOL WEEKEND

Cara and Rob's presi. She's got a license you know!

We have just spent a great weekend in Bristol. The occasion? Cara's 60th. birthday celebration. Cara had her birthday a week ago and this was the Bristol version of it as she and Rob live in the highlands of Scotland. Needless to say, some of the Highland friends came down too, turning it into a multicultural/national event. We had been looking forward to the weekend for literally months. Bristol is one of my favourite towns, reminding me in many ways of Goteborg. There was also the prospect of meeting old friends again who were expected at the party.

Trish and I went down on Friday. By train. And we were soon on the bus from Temple Meads station to our hotel. Now, apart from Carl, Hannah, Jan and Joel, I know only two other people from Bristol, Martin, who for years lived in Clifton and Sheelagh who I recently came into contact again after many years, through Facebook. Imagine my surprise when, halfway through our journey to the hotel, in the middle of the city centre, when Martin boarded our bus! This surprise was compounded a few hours later when Trish and I, sitting outside a restaurant in Millennium Square, were hailed from across the tables by Sheelagh. Small world.

On the Saturday we met up with Carl and son Joel, for coffee and beers before joining the revelers onboard the boat Cara had hired for her party, which took us, many attired in excellent fancy dress up the estuary to Avonmouth, complete with retro disco and buffet. There wasn't much room to dance but Rob did his best.

After the boat trip Martin and Sam, his partner, together with Grace, Trish and I, sloped off to find a decent pint of real ale, although in truth it turned out that only Martin, Grace and I were interested in the ale. We eventually turned up at a pub somewhere near the Arnolfini area where they had run out of said liquid. A trek across to the other side of The Mud Dock saw us at a hostelry the name of which escapes me, but where they sold the cunningly named brew pictured below.

We had a great weekend, it was marvelous to catch up with people not seen for a good few years and it was great to see Cara usher in her new decade with the vim and vigor of someone half her age.