The Joy of Flying

My passport has been released from jail.

 It has been trapped in my filing cabinet on potential retirement for over two years now.  It dusted itself for the Qatar Airways flight to Doha, where the passengers on their way to their final destinations in India and Armenia, decided to pack up most of Target and cram it in six matching suitcases which they then wrapped with clingfilm. An hour later me, my passport and my slimline blue case were told that it was a full flight and there was no hope for the next fifteen hours.

I have wiped these hours from my memory; of being inside what feels like a cardboard tube trying to unsuccessfully find a different way to place your legs and shoulders that would bring comfort. Of climbing over crumpled row mates as you see the red light turn to green on the toilet down the back.

Doha airport. A layover of four hours. A country preparing for the World Cup.  Curiously overstaffed by young people in uniforms and ID badges. Security with  their walkie talkies. Cleaners with big blue brooms. Shop assistants, selling fast cars and Penhaligon's perfumes. Obviously happy to have a job with suit and polished shoes. An odd oversized bear. Women top to toe in black. Young girls wrapped in bright colours and patterns with racy shoes popping out below. Harrods Tea room, with waiters in green waistcoats offering pots of tea in silver teapots and scones, crumpets and poached eggs on toast.

The Qatar flight from Doha to Capetown was seemingly for me and 49 of my new friends. Just 50 of us on this huge plane. even the crew seemed surprised. " sit wherever you like madam" they said. so I did. all four seats in row 33. stretched out like I was sunbathing. watching George Lazenby and Diana Rigg in " On her Majesty's Secret Service" ( It wasn't his fault, the script wasn't witty and there was too much snow)

I am here now. On solid ground. The discomfort of not knowing whether the time on my orange watch reflects where I started, where I was ending, or just passing through. 

Traveling on long flights is an art that begins with having that small case open on your bed and making good choices with white T shirts and just the one sweater. It is all about the small bottles of rose water, the tiny pots of thick night cream, the comb and large hankie to tie round your hair when there is no curl or curve left in it. Not bringing that cut up pear, which, even with lemon juice, ends up brown, squashed and pointless. Borrowing your friends Bose headphones. Changing out of anything restrictive in the underwear line after you have gently requested a better seat at the gate, and getting on the plane. No one should attempt anything in an airplane loo apart from keeping your feet away from patches of unidentified wet on the floor. and, if possible, having done a course in becoming a pretzel. airplane seats, down the affordable end, are not meant for humans with bones. I rest my case. The small blue one. That I had to kneel on to close. I am sure the orange cardigan will come in handy. I am sure.

Waving in the waves

It might start with being able to swim. Which I can.
It certainly comes with the waves being the friendly kind coming from a body of water which is upwards of cold.

 I started in Watford municipal swimming pool. On a Friday night . it was our family outing.
A swim at the end of week in a big tiled Victorian pool. Smelling high of chlorine. With fears of verrucas from the slippery floors. But with the promise of a visit to the chip shop on the way home. With dripping hair into collars and threats of amputation if we got our fingers, shiny with deep fried potatoes crunchy with salt and malt vinegar, on the smooth leather seats of the Jaguar Mark 2.

I believe my first encounter with waves would have been in Cornwall at a place called Mullion Cove where we had one of those summer holidays with bright weather and tomato sandwiches and orange squash.

The Murray gang

Shortly thereafter, we headed south to the Mediterranean. In an attempt to keep three children wet and healthy for a few months a year, my parents bought a shoebox with bunk beds and a convertible sofa, with a short walk on unfinished roads down to the Port Pelegrí beach on the Costa Brava in Spain. There, it was basically swimming all day interspersed with bread rolls filled with huge slices of tomato and an Orangina.
It was summers of tan lines and prune like fingers. Groups of friends picking up the same games every year, espadrilles, “Hero” apricot jam and reading Tolkien, or other captivating writers, under the beach umbrella.

The Pena Golosa Gang

 When I was young,  I decided that with success would come two things. Shoes that were made for me. And a swimming pool. I’m not sure much as changed. Maybe buying an airline ticket without having to see if the fare includes a suitcase. And being able to give indiscriminately to worthwhile charities.

But I would like to add a piece of sea. Warm, blue with waves.

I have swum in the waves of Caribbean, the Indian , the  Pacific and the Atlantic Oceans.

I don’t like roller coasters. Magic Mountain would be close to toothache on my list of favorite things.

Standing In waist high water, hair wet and pushed back off the face, watching the waves coming towards you.
Small ones, big ones, gentle ones, shy ones, curving ones; cowards, bullies, and flirts.

With anything other than a whisper, you have to choose. Dive into it’s body and let the wave break on top of you. Take a big leap and try to lift yourself above it’s arch. It becomes a game of sorts. An everlasting game, because the waves have every possibility in their massive arsenal. No way you win this game. You will always be taken off guard. But as you and the waves do your dance you can jete
 like Nureyev, leap like Olga Korbut; sail through the water like Robin Goodfellow, fly through the waves like Amelia Earhart.

One big blue watery circus tent.

Waves allow us to be giants.

One wave at a time.

Tropical musings

Hawaii.

There is an apostrophe in there somewhere. There are apostrophes in almost every word.
I am staying on a road called Mo’okua street. It is a short street. With two churches. And because one of the churches is “ Seventh Day Adventists” they take the Saturday sabbath and give the Sunday over the “ Hope Christians” who stick with the other Sabbath, Sunday. So it is short street with three churches. There are loads of churches here in this small town of Kailua. Probably another apostrophe.
Lots of reasons why I am here. Most of them are as interesting as deciding whether to take the 4.10 or the 5.20 to Ruislip. So, let’s just say, I’m happily here.
Lots of Americans come on holiday. I understand why. There is a Walgreens and a Wholefoods. There are banks with drive-in tellers. There are many Starbucks and the police cars have blue lights. There are also mangoes hanging high in the trees and papayas sticking out like collars from straight trunks. And most things smell. The hibiscus don’t. They just overwhelm you with colour. But the plumeria and the tuberose whack it to round very corner.
I am on the windward side of the island of Oahu. The side that Barack Obama stays on when he comes here for Christmas. The bay of Kailua. If the ocean wasn’t so constantly moving , I could say that I have swum in the same water in which he he body-surfed. Which would make me related somehow. Which, in these strangest of times, would be comforting somehow.

I am staying with a very old friend who goes to work, so I am leading a silent life. Apart from the “good morning’s “ I throw out to the people I pass on the water’s edge as I walk by, I could be in a nunnery. A nunnery where I cut up the aforementioned mango and papaya for a late breakfast and  wander outside to the lanai ( that’s a deck) in a swimming costume and a sarong. Maybe that’s why there are so many churches here on Mo’Okua Street.

Mangoes hanging , just out of reach.

This morning, After my morning walk and my morning swim, I went on my turquoise bike to the farmers market. The proper farmer’s market. I went to another one on Sunday but I am assured it is now bent toward the tourists with it’s many stands of prepared food and angel jewelry and CBD oils. This farmers market was for just one hour behind the police station. It had six stalls. And the local farmers brought only what they had in their fields. Nothing fancy.
I bought sweet onions, spinach, peas, apple bananas, papaya, mangoes, small peppers, lettuce, aubergine, coriander, lemons, limes and some tropical flowers.

 I carried it all back on my turquoise bike and luckily the cars were very tolerant of my weaving.

The cars behave here a little like trams....when they spot you on the side of the road, they assume you want to cross and they stop.  Traffic jams are three cars in a row. Going fast is over 25 mph.
Warmth allows you to turn off the busy bit of your brain. It lets you put on the same pair of pink striped shorts day after day, let’s you look at clouds long enough to see in which direction they are traveling, allows you to take half an hour to eat a papaya.

When Barack was here for those holidays, I am sure he had a lot of phone calls and e-mails. But, even though we are distantly related by the same ocean waves, my world is very quiet.
I have A.A.Gill to remind me what brilliant writing is. I have Jojoba oil in my hair. And Kiehl’s sunscreen on my skin.

Mangoes, papayas. Waves.....

... that’ll do me.

getting the hang of the island life

the view from my downmarket balcony this morning

It's taken me a few days, but I am getting it sorted now.
Just because I am staying in a resort it doesn't mean that I have to prove every five minutes that I am not a resort person.
The little concierge who realized I hadn't received my welcome package was very keen to book me some activities. He got it down to a medicinal plant garden.  Medicine and plants.... hmm, I was thinking...then I saw the photos and there were this group of happy people drinking tea and buying boxes of the stuff and I said I don't think so.
But this morning I trotted down to a small pool and did some exercises. The fact that the entire complex who were buttering their toast and sipping their coffee was watching me, thinking that I walked round the pool because I obviously couldn't swim, I let slide.
Then I took off down the steep beach path where I passed a couple of the Hawaiin geese called Nene, and their babies was a good start to my adventure at the fancy hotel.

The nene family

 I was going for brunch. I had brought my writing book and I was hoping to finish my year plan on a grown-up balcony in a la-di-da setting. I meandered my way into the hotel and found the Makana Terrace. I was the only person there on my own. The hostess showed me to the this table right by the entrance where everyone and his mother would pass me on their way to get another waffle. I was going to be writing my dreams and wishes in purple pen. "Don't you have anything nicer ?" I said. " Nicer?" she replied. " Yes," I said. ... I stood my ground. It was hard. " Well," she said." There are tables, but they aren't cleared and that is something, I can't do." So I went back to the check in table and sat down as the hostess wrote something on my ticket and then I watched couples and families be led to tables. Fifteen minutes passed, and then she came up to me. " Miss Murray,  I have a table in the shade, please follow me." And I did.  I said " Thank you" very nicely as she told the waiter that I was eating alone.  And I asked the told the waiter I didn't like ice in my water , and I pulled out my big writing book and my purple pen and I finished my year plan over a plate of Passion fruit and Papaya, two fried eggs, avocados and capers. I slipped the napkin with it's slices of papaya for breakfast on my un-la-di-da balcony the following day and said goodbye to fancyland.

I drove down to Annini beach and swam around for hours.

couldn't be happier

Other people did different things. Like stand fully dressed in the water talking on a cell phone.

Or standing around in a circle drinking red bull.

Talked to a lady called Sally from Idaho who had come here with her son, a retired homicide cop from Oakland, to start a new life eighteen months ago...but she was done. She wanted to go back to weather and her friends. She had tried, she said. She volunteered at the thrift shop. As a life long teacher she offered to tutor. She went to church. But nobody asked her back for a cup of tea.

Then I came back and watched the sky change. And change. And change. And change.

Good night from the island girl.

Another day here in Hawaii

I saw a frigate bird today. They sometimes fly for eight years without landing. I saw a group of juvenile Albatross. They were strutting around on this hillside looking for a mate. I was told by this lovely man that when they are little and they emerge from that same hillside and they launch themselves off that cliff, their first flight will be for three years. I also learned that you can only distinguish a female from a male albatross by plucking one of the feathers and doing a DNA test.
I don't have a photo of an albatross because they were strutting at the end of a pair of binoculars.
But you all know what they look like....

the lighthouse. home of the frigate bird and the albatross.

the early morning sky..

After my time at the nature reserve I went down to the beach and swam around. I didn't bother with my newly acquired snorkel and mask. I just used my regular swimming goggles and held my breath.
I met a very large sea turtle. he let me swim with him as he raided the sea floor and popped his head up to the surface a couple of times a few inches from my face.




Here in Kauai there are different groups of people. There are time share owners who don't know if they are in Hawaii or Florida. I swear I met a couple who were dressed in matching lime green trousers and they thought they were on Maui.
There are a lot of young couples who are pregnant with their first child and they are having a holiday before the sleepless nights they have been told to expect. There are a number of honeymooners. You can tell by the new clothes, the semi-permanent make-up ( like eyelashes and unusual nail varnish colours) and the whacking great rings that are sported on their left hands. Lots of fiddling of the hands as the wearers, particularly the men, getting used to the new feeling.



I met a lovely couple, Denise and Greg,who had a dog a lot like my own ( the famous Fanny for anyone who doesn't know me well). In their late fifties from Maryland and decided to up-sticks and live the island life. They sold a house and bought a house and work remotely starting work at east coast time and then come down to Annini Beach with their huge dog and swim. Not for ever, but for now.
 I always think of what my mother used to say, not necessarily to me but to the larger life she hoped I would lead.
" People make the mistake of thinking that the big decisions they make are written in stone. But they are not. They are written in sand."
I don't think she is right, I know she is.


Those Albatross take off and fly without friends or family for three years and then they end up back on the same cliff dancing around looking for the one mate who they will stick with for life. Those Albatross. Such a romantic group.

The fancy people's view.

I walked down this evening to the beach and then slipped through the fence into the fancy hotel next door , where I rode the lift from the beach to the ninth floor. I stood and watched the sunset with a host of people in casual holiday attire. I did bring money to buy myself a fancy hotel drink, but no one asked me so I just leaned against the railing as first time pregnant ladies sipped virgin tropical cocktails and first time wedded couples took photos of each other. It wasn't a very spectacular sunset. so I slipped away and slid through the fence before anyone checked my credentials.

At my location, the Hanalei Bay Resort / or time-share haven, the musician in the ukulele bar was singing " Puff the magic Dragon." He was. Honestly. But I didn't sing along. I don't know the words.

Bali Ha'i ..is that how you spell it?

When I was small, my parents had taken us on a holiday to Italy. We went in the Jaguar.  We stayed at a place called Diano Marino. We went with a family called the Farrells. I never think of my parents as anti-social. But I have now come to believe that they did not want to give up control of all hours of their day. I think this was more my mother than my father. My mother was always sure when not to talk. She had about five inches for small talk in a given day.

So for a couple of years,  my lovely Welsh grandparents took us three children to Butlin’s Holiday Camp which we though was really exciting until it wore off and we never wanted to see a red jacket again. 

My parents bought a flat the size of postage stamp in Catalonia in the north of Spain.  We all three shared a bedroom. My parents slept in the living room. It was orange and green. Then we went up market and they bought a larger place, the size of three stamps,  half a mile closer to the sea. This time there were two bedrooms. Pena Golosa. There were bright coloured toweling cushions on the sofas. There was a stack of jigsaw puzzles for the rains that came at Easter. A record player. There were friends that had also bought places at Pena Golosa. The grown ups would go out for Boulllabaise. Us kids would play and play and play.

roosters at the war cemetery

So… here I am in Kauai. Staying at a place that has a lot of timeshares. A lot of people who play mediocre tennis. But, I might add, I can’t play it at all. I am not going to back into the sleeveless T-shirt. But my mother wouldn’t have been five minutes in this place. The cleaning crew came round today and we had a laugh. 

I remember many years ago, my mother, who had a bit of spare cash tucked into her back pocket,  bought she and my father an adventure in Kenya.  She was so upset by the fact that the lady cleaning her room in the hotel lived hundreds of miles from their families and saw them once or twice a year, she never really talked about the ‘special’ holiday.

This evening I went down to Hanalei to watch the sunset.  Then I came back to timeshare land, to my brown apartment where there are musicians playing at the ukulele bar and people are drinking mai-tai’s and there are tiki torches blazing.  There is a musician singing “ I shot the Sheriff.”

There is so much colour on this island. 

fishing at the end of Hanalei pier

Today I went snorkeling. I saw brilliant fish who have no idea how pretty they are. I talked to a guy who had moved into his second life which is just chasing the surf. I read my book. I ate my ‘egg fruit’ and the hairy red fruit like a lychee called a “rambuton’….all tasty.

This lady was standing on the the coral ( which all the signs tell you to protect) having a FaceTime chat on her i-phone

Yesterday I drove way too much. round the island. Up a canyon. round the island. 

Today I walked. Hallo feet. 

waimea Canyon...way up high....a bit of vertigo here

roosters everywhere...

female chicken with her small brood

I will have to find “ South Pacific” to watch soon. I have been to the beach where  Nellie sung  “ I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair.” and I can see Bali Ha’i from my window.

Tomorrow I want to see a whale…….

Not too much to ask in paradise, is it?

I am in Hawaii. Kauai to be exact.

Now just a couple of housekeeping things…..

Nobody, especially unfit men over 50 should wear T-shirts that are cut off at the shoulders. Why would you do that? Why would you trot out to dinner in a T shirt that has this draping armhole that shows underarm hair and your less than firm chest?  We women are better at this. We search out things that are longer at the back than the front. We love elbow length. 

And, everyone, at least once a year, must be in a place that when they look up at night they see that heavenly mantle of stars.

Those of us that live in cities, awash with street lights and other nonsense like air contamination, we see an occasional sighting of Venus.

But this is what we all need to remind ourselves of being children when anything was possible.

A blanket of pin pricks. Light years away.

I feel like Burt Lancaster in Local Hero on that beach in Scotland.

But I’m not. I’m Wendy in Kaua’i.

I was a bit flat. Like a plug with a red button that you had to reset in order to connect to the power. Had a week to throw to the Gods. Could have stayed at home and made a start on my taxes. Got lovely Rey to come in and install a new cupboard in my kitchen. Had Lovely Scott come round and clean my rugs.

But instead, I bought a flight to Hawaii .

Then I had to find somewhere to stay which was a little harder than I had envisaged. 

But I am here. At a resort. Hanalei Bay Resort. With a lot of people who play golf. And sit in the swimming pool and drink cocktails. And sit in the Ukulele Bar and listen to someone singing “ Feelings”, and, oh yes, they wear  T shirts that show creases that should be kept private.

This is not a resort that would want me as a member

But I am here. And I am also not here. I have been driving around. To a lighthouse. To a botanical garden. To a beach where the road truly ends.

Buying organic vegetables and fruit. swimming in the slightly scary ocean. watching sunsets. Looking up and seeing  the heavens.

I’m doing okay. 

More than okay.

I’ll take a photo of one of those T shirt wearers …then you’ll understand

It puts you off your ‘mahalo.’