Fermenting rebellion

I learned the trick a couple of years ago from a fellow middle east blogger calling himself Paraglider.

Buy a big bottle of apple juice, remove about 50ml, add half a teaspoon of yeast, replace the top but allow it to be just loose enough to allow the carbon dioxide to escape. Within four days or so, the apple juice turns into a reasonably acceptable cloudy cider strong enough to make your knees dissolve.

Al Marai apple juice works very well indeed. It's important that the apple juice contains no preservatives, or the yeast will be killed off and the mixture won't ferment.

Curious as to quite how alcoholic my home-brew concoction actually was, I borrowed a hydrometer.

The latest batch, using 'natural, preservative free' apple juice from Nadec produced an alcohol by volume of exactly zero. Oh dear, that wasn't in the plan. I added sugar and more yeast, and set it off again. It bubbled, but sadly produced no alcohol. The mix tastes sweet, suggesting that the yeast isn't metabolising the sugar into something more useful.

There must be something in Nadec's 100% apple juice that prevents the fermentation process. It's not listed in the ingredients: Purified water, natural apple juice concentrate, vitamin C.

I'm going back to Al Marai, if I can find some.

]}:-{>

Happy birthday, NTB

English Civil War re-enactment.
That's Muggins, over there on the far, far left.

Photo from Sir Thomas Tyldesley's Regiment of Foote FB page, edited by me.

Well, I’m back. As discussed in my immediately previous post, the main reason for spending ten days in England was to attend an English Civil War re-enactment at Marlborough in Wiltshire. I wouldn’t normally have made the effort, but it was the Norfolke Trayned Bandes’ fortieth birthday party. We’ve been re-enacting the Civil war for rather longer than the actual seventeenth-century event.

Having arrived in Plymouth in the wee hours, courtesy of Qatar Airways and National Express coaches, I grabbed some sleep and then enjoyed the first of a series of hearty English breakfasts. Huzzah for Nanny Goat! That evening, it being Nephew #1’s eighteenth birthday, I took him down the pub and force-fed him beer. He’d obviously never drunk beer in a pub before. As I’d not had any ‘proper’ real ale since last October, my first pint unsurprisingly hardly touched the sides. For shame! Nephew #1 was to get his birthday present a few days later, wherein he’d hurl himself from a serviceable aircraft in a tandem skydive. I’ve seen the photos, but as they’ve STILL not been uploaded on to social media, my plan to post one here still sits firmly in the Pending tray.

At last. Over a year later I've finally got the pic.

Nanny Goat had very kindly offered the use of her new car. She disposed of her ten-year-old City Rover earlier this year and purchased a very clean 2011 Toyota Aygo. It burns about half the petrol that the Rover did, which means 44mpg around town and an excellent 55mpg under my rather heavy right hoof on a long run. For the ECW muster trip I had a passenger, and by dropping the back seats this minuscule car swallowed all of our kit, a birthday cake, and had room to spare.

I am, in fact, not left-handed!

Speaking of kit, I rummaged in the attic and have rescued some of my other re-enactment costumes and hardware. I decided not to import my spring-steel cup-hilt rapier into the UAE, and that’s still languishing in England. For the weekend, I borrowed a massive tent, an air mattress, sleeping bag, etc. Only afterwards did I discover my old tent in Nanny Goat’s attic, by which time it was too late.

The weekend weather in Marlborough was truly excellent, except for one squally downpour that hit the campsite while I was halfway through erecting my tent. It was up sufficiently to provide shelter for several campers. Having established camp, I and several many Norfolkes headed off to the small but perfectly-formed beer tent. I deployed my recorder, and there was much singing well into the night. I’m mildly surprised how many songs I could remember after a gap of over sixteen years.

Drill occurred on Saturday morning after an unhealthy breakfast at the burger van and a second breakfast back at the Norfolkes’ campsite. Drill is a practice for the afternoon’s battle. As a drum wasn’t available, I took the opportunity to take photos. I’d not be taking a camera on to the field during the actual battle. Anyway, I’d have a drum and therefore no free hands.

Norfolkes engage Blackwells and Tyldesleys.
There might be a certain amount of violence.

And after drill, a small group including myself wandered down the hill into Marlborough in search of provisions and refreshment. The Town Council who were sponsoring the event as part of commemoration of the real Siege of Marlborough (December 1642) wished members to go into town in full seventeenth-century kit. Several went armed with swords. 

At the Green Dragon Inn, there were real ales for sale, left over from a recent beer festival, at a splendid £2 a pint (which is nearly half-price for Dyne Sythe). I confessed that my tankard held slightly more than a pint; the landlord thanked me for my honesty and filled it to the brim anyway. As I was dressed like a Hobbit, I found it necessary to play music from Lord of the Rings in the bar (to applause) and then we retired to the beer garden for pipe-weed and more music. And more ale, I confess.

Birthday cakes.

The Norfolkes’ 40th birthday party was at the campsite after the battle, where much cake, booze, and food was consumed.

And then on Sunday, we did it all again, except that this time the Royalists won.

Back to Plymouth, and to my delight Nanny Goat had had her new internet delivered. She’s now decided to drag herself into the 21^st century. “Old Mrs Brady is 86 and she uses Skype and Facebook. If she can do it…”

Plymouth Sound.

I unpacked the modem/router and plugged it in. It was ready to go after about five minutes. There was no computer in the house except for my telephone. After trips to the computer shops, Nanny Goat has decided she wants a tablet computer. Something that’ll do email, Skype, and a bit of web browsing. She’s taking lessons and advice from her tech-savvy grandson, my Nephew #2, and will probably pick up a Samsung Galaxy for a knock-down discount when the 2015 models start to appear. Incidentally, I’m astounded to see Nanny Goat gets over 12Mbps, and she pays a mere £5 per month more than for just the telephone landline. The router is free.

Speaking of Nephew #2, my sister suggested that he might like to spend some quality time with his uncle, so the two of us went karting. He’s about half my weight, so unsurprisingly quicker on the track. To my irritation, I only discovered that it was possible to do the tight chicane at full throttle during the third and final session on the track. Nanny Goat took pictures, politely declining the opportunity to demonstrate to us how karting should be done.

Nephew in Kart 9 gives chase to his XXL uncle in Kart 10

Kart 9 overtakes Kart 10.

All too soon, I was back in Dubai with a suitcase stuffed with liquorice from Tiger Treats of Looe, and historical costume and hardware but no sword. Beloved Wife, recently returned from nearly a month in the United States, would be off to Budapest in a day or so, and would I like to come?

And so it came to pass that I hardly had time to download my photos before the pair of us were off to Hungary for a few days. But that’s another story for another blog post.

]}:-{>

Intolerable Acts

This town
Is gonna be like a ghost town.
All the clubs have been closed down.

This place
Is gonna be like a ghost town
Bands don't play no more
(Too much fightin' on da dancefloor)

The presence of intoxicating alcoholic beverage in Qatar has for many years been a touchy subject. On one hand, we have an indigenous society for whom alcohol is forbidden by both religion and the law of the land, and on another there is a majority of residents who regard a drink as a normal part of adult life.

So for many years there has been an arrangement whereby non-Muslim residents have a permit to acquire liquor for personal consumption in private. It’s also possible to buy and consume liquor in certain hotel bars and restaurants. Current practice is that any prospective drinker has to present a valid passport or ID card before being allowed in. Whether this is to shame us into not actually visiting a bar (good luck with that), or to keep track of who drinks, or is merely a way of giving a couple of doormen something to do is unclear.

And then a couple of years ago, everything changed as The Pearl appeared. This man-made development, won from the ocean by reclamation, isn’t technically in Qatar. It’s a gated community on what is almost an island. The normal rule that non-nationals can’t own real estate doesn’t apply, and thus foreigners have purchased apartments and business units. It’s luxury living, with the developments in crescents around marinas full of motor yachts. We all know how waterfront properties command high prices, don’t we? 

Another aspect of the not-quite-in-Qatar-ness of The Pearl is, or more accurately was, the relative freedom to buy drinks.

Until, according to one of my associates who “saw it happen”, there was a punch-up.

A couple of drunks have a fight, and are presumably arrested, fined, given very short haircuts, imprisoned, and deported. Good: most adults are fully capable of imbibing without becoming incoherent or aggressive. Assault, drunken or otherwise, is unacceptable; it is right and proper to punish the guilty.

The Qatar authorities have reacted by shutting down all liquor outlets throughout The Pearl. This appears to be a form of collective punishment. Why should all residents, all visitors, all businesses, and all employees suffer because of the unacceptable behavior of a tiny minority? Restaurants that did a booming trade up until the liquor ban still have to pay their high waterfront rents , but now struggle to find customers. Businesses close down. Employees lose their jobs and have to go home. Their children don’t get educated. Their relatives don’t get medical care.

Incidentally, I await with interest to outcome of the discussions between FIFA and the State of Qatar with regard to the supply of vast quantities of booze to very large numbers of thirsty foopball fans. In Brazil, the 2003 law preventing sale of beer in foopball arenas is in direct conflict with Budweiser being a major sponsor of the tournament. “The selling of beer in stadiums is part of the fan culture and will also be part of the 2014 FIFA World Cup,” said FIFA in January. And what about in 2022?

]}:-{>

Yes we can

I recently read that the sale of tinned Pepsi and Coca-Cola is now banned in the UAE. Over the next month, cans of this popular cola-flavoured beverage are, by law to be removed from the shelves, on pain of 'strict penalties'. I don't generally drink the stuff, except to disguise the nasty taste of the rum, ha ha.

What has bought about this sudden move by the Ministry of Economy? Positive action against obesity, diabetes, rotten teeth, or littering? An effort to force the general populace to switch to OwnBrand^(TM) Cola, perhaps? Or are the plastic bottles that ultimately come from oil somehow more environmentally sustainable than alumininium, aluminium, aluminum or alumium?

Once we get past the 'Read me! Read me!' headline that suggests that the UAE has chosen its sledgehammer to crack the proverbial nut and has banned soft drinks, we find that the truth makes a lot more sense.

The reason given in this news article is that the cans are breaking the regulations by not having the price or ingredients displayed in Arabic.

I see. Putting aside the semantic issue about the naughty and disobedient cans, it's not exactly rocket surgery to stick a printed paper label on the product, is it? That's what happens to other imported prepacked goods, much to the irritation of those of us who would like to read what's invariably obscured by the label. What is Arabic for 'sugar', 'high-fructose corn syrup' and 'aspartame', by the way?

What is actually happening is made clearer in this news article. The drinks are on sale in both 300ml and 330ml for Coke and 355ml for Pepsi, and they're all up for sale at the same price. The news articles do note that it's only the 300ml cans that are being withdrawn from sale. Apparently, Joe Public cannot tell that the big cans on sale at Dh1.50 offer better value than small cans at Dh1.50, and he and has to be protected. The cost to manufacture, market and transport any can size has got to be virtually identical: what's wrong with "...and up to 55ml free!"? This difference is worth Dh0.275 (less than a shilling in UK old money) to Mr Public, and is for less than four level tablespoons of the actual product.

As the stuff is made locally in the UAE, it surely cannot be beyond the wit of man to print the ingredients list in Arabic, can it? Even some of my beer has Arabic ingredients.

My other canned drink of choice is best served with juniper-berry flavoured beverage and a dash of lemon. I wonder if the curious mixture of 300ml and 330ml packaging will affect tonic water and other products, or be limited to cola?

]}:-{>

Forgive me; I was drunk

In 2011 England, it’s not actually OK to get pissed up and then attack someone in the street, but the offence is a lesser one that being rude on a tram.

Four Somali Muslim women get drunk and repeatedly kick someone in the head. The judge decrees that shouting, “kill the white slag” is insufficient evidence to prove that the attack was racially motivated. The attackers get six months suspended and community service for actual bodily harm.

The lenient sentence is because these Muslims are forbidden by their religion from boozing, and were thus not used to alcohol.

Now I may be wrong, but if I committed a violent offence while drunk, wouldn’t my punishment be increased? Claiming that “I was in my cups, m’lud. I didn’t know what I was doing” isn’t likely to help my case. Yet here it reduced a possible five-year sentence for ABH to a non-custodial one.

Meanwhile, the alleged perpetrator of a foul-mouthed racist rant on public transport gets remanded in custody until January. She gets to spend Christmas in the slammer for an allegedly racist verbal attack. No matter how obscene the language and sentiments in the YouTube video may be, nobody was actually physically harmed, were they?

I do not care for street violence I have a particular hatred of drunken street violence, having been a victim. And of course, I only get what the papers choose to print rather than the full court transcripts. However, There must surely be something wrong with a legal system that allows one criminal gang to walk free after kicking someone in the head, yet incarcerates another for a month without trial for a verbal assault.

Daily Telegraph article
Another Daily Telegraph article
Something from This Is Croydon Today

]}:-{>

Pie and a pint

It was a quiet birthday. Beloved Wife is visiting her side of the family on her side of the Pond, it’s Ramadan so all pubs and bars are shut, and I’m new in town. Friday will be our fourth wedding anniversary. I look forward to the anniversary phone conversation in lieu of presents and a meal out somewhere posh.

As I’m not a great lover of cake, I have made myself a Birthday Pie, complete with several candles. The number of candles bears no relation to the number of years; it’s simply several arranged in a quincunx.

Please note the healthy vegetables. There are leeks and sparrow-grass, both lightly steamed, and served without great lashings of salt or butter. As it turned out, the pie was full of chicken and more vegetables, so add carrots, sweetcorn and broccoli to the list. There’s my five a day.

And because eye yam what eye yam, I added chips and lashings of gravy. Oh, look: Potato. Another healthy vegetable.

The beer was Fuller’s London Pride. It was from a tin rather than hand-pulled, but nevertheless an approximation to proper English Bitter Ale.

As it turned out, I had picked up a packet of those hilarious comedy candles that refuse to stay extinguished once blown out. The problem was lighting them in the first place. My apartment is all electric, and because I don’t smoke I have up to now had no need for naked flames. So suddenly this evening I discovered that I had no source of ignition. However, an electric ring up on full blast eventually got a candle to light.

Remaining on the subject of candles, I was wandering around one of those tourist tat shops a few days ago, wondering if there really is a market for dozens of rotary-dial Bakelite telephones beyond theatrical props, when I came across this caprine sculpture. I have no idea what it is supposed to be; possibly an ash-tray, maybe a plant-pot holder or even perchance somewhere for business cards. I have assigned its function as Candle Stick.

Q-tel’s promised birthday visit came to pass. I shall have to continue to wait for my broadband to be installed, and the flat continues with an inertweb connection rather than the interweb that I would prefer. I’m sitting at work after everyone else has gone home, pumping this post up into the blogosphere with my MiFi device that steadfastly refuses to work at home.

]}:-{>

Take this tablet every day

It was coming up to that time of the month when the Goat needed a visa run. For those not in the know, British passport holders without Residence Visas are allowed to enter the UAE and stay for up to thirty days. It’s possible to leave the country and then re-enter for a further month.

Following the Goat’s redundancy and subsequent cancellation of his UAE Residence Visa, the first visa run was to Bahrain. Instead of simply arriving and flying straight back, Beloved Wife accompanied the Goat, and both enjoyed a splendid weekend with friends.

The plan included scuba diving in the gin-clear waters off the Bahrain coast, but soon expanded to include a black-tie dinner dance at the Golf Club. Neither Beloved Wife nor Goat actually play golf (or SwishBugger, as it was more accurately portrayed the following day on the driving range) but that didn’t prevent a hugely entertaining and very liquid evening from taking place. Other weekend entertainments included Nix’s horse, where she rode and Goat, (who’s not been on horseback since 1991 and that was for about half an hour) taking photos, and a slightly naughty drive in a Corvette. Heh, heh, heh!

Almost a month later, and the Goat contacted his prospective future employers to remind them about the Contract of Employment, and a note that the start date really ought to be before his current UAE visa expired. And so it was that the Goat found himself on a day trip to Doha last Wednesday.

Fly Dubai leaves Terminal 2 at 7am, so the alarm went off at an unearthly 4am. Almost unbelievably, there is actually another four o’clock. An alarm clock that rings when the hour hand is on the right-hand side of the clock face is uncivilised.

How is it, the Goat wonders, that so many people who can afford designer luggage, decent clothes and air tickets seem unable to afford soap? One of these fragrant individuals was so desperate to get on board the aircraft that he pushed and shoved the Goat on the steps. As if the Boeing is going to drive off and get airborne leaving irate passengers on the apron.

“Please. Go past me, if you think it’s that important.”

And then the Goat had the delight of standing in the aisle waiting while the said gentleman manhandled his very large designer luggage into the overhead bin.

Whilst on the subject of whinging about people and things, why do people at Immigration seem actively to seek out empty pages in a passport? Perhaps they are in collusion with government agencies who stand to make a tidy profit by selling regular travellers a new ten-year passport every three years. The Goat has also noted that the tin-pottedness of a particular regime appears to be directly proportional to the size of the visa applied to a passport.

The day trip turned into two job interviews with the same firm that had already appointed the Goat, or so he’d been led to believe. But the appointment was confirmed. Huzzah! Starting date is the end of the month.

]}:-{>

Who wants to be a milliner?

The Goat’s recent silence on the InterTubes of late has been because of other rather more pressing engagements. One of these involved the Goat’s almost full passport. Others involved beer.

According to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, a British UAE resident has to send his applications for a replacement passport to Düsseldorf rather than the previous system that involved having it done at the local British Embassy. First pay £15 to PayPal to obtain permission to download the application form, then send off the form, old passport and nearly €300. “Up to” six weeks later, the new passport would arrive.

Unfortunately, having his residence visa cancelled upon termination of employment would give the Goat four weeks to leave the country. The potential for being trapped without a passport and incurring fines for illegally remaining in the UAE rather encouraged a holiday in Blighty.

So the Goat applied for a same-day appointment at Nanny Goat’s local passport office, picked up the application form for free from the local post office, and now has a new biometric passport. Huzzah! Visits to the in-laws in the USA without all that pesky form-filling to get a visa are now possible.

The Immigration and Passport Service has to be self-funding. It is, of course, completely unreasonable that the British taxpayer subsidises Mrs Trellis’ holiday from North Wales to Benidorm; arguably more so when the travel involves a tax-free job in Dubai. Thus a standard UK passport currently costs around £78. Same-day service by special appointment and a jumbo 48-page document is £140ish. As £78 apparently covers all the costs of the IPS, the Goat idly speculates as to the justification of nearly €300 for Brits abroad.

Travel costs didn’t count in the Goat’s case because he was going anyway.

Visiting family and friends, the Goat borrowed Nanny Goat’s car and gave it the sort of thrashing that the old rented Yaris received between Dubai and Abu Dhabi, and achieved the same result: 40mpig, or 7l/100km for the rest of the planet. Poor little City Rover.

Thank you to Mr and Mrs Thrash, the Gnomad and Gnomadette, and the Lawful Goods of Cowplain for their hospitality, food and the opportunity for boating on the Thames.

The weather on the run up to Easter was gloriously sunny, even resulting in the Goat getting slightly sunburned in the open cockpit of the MV Jedi between Sunbury-upon-Thames and Windsor. Next time, wear some form of hat. A new record for possibly the slowest passage was caused by repeatedly having the river locks slammed shut in our faces because they were full of other boaters who had had the same idea involving sunny weather and messing about in boats. By the time we arrived, all mooring spots were taken and the Good Ship Jedi had to be rafted three out. This made getting small children ashore an entertaining experience; just as well they’re used to this sort of thing.

Incidentally, the Goat was appalled when his host produced a French flag. In England. On St George’s Day. And Bill Shakespeare’s birthday. There was some feeble excuse about it being an unused courtesy flag for a boat trip over the Channel that was postponed because of foul weather.

Moored in a very busy Windsor, it was noted that Her Maj., Mrs Liz Windsor was in residence up at the local castle. Witness the Royal Standard flying from the topmost tower. The Goat shared his speculation that, because of her grandson’s upcoming wedding, she might have actually been down the hat shop. (Although in Soviet Russia, as the ancient memes say, the hat shop comes to you.) Nanny Goat, who was in London on a coach trip at the time, reports that Her Maj.’s car was actually parked outside Westminster Abbey on Thursday while the monarch was inside doling out Maundy money.

Now back chez Nanny Goat, her offspring is bemoaning the fact that the display on his new mobile phone has died. A fully-functional phone, but no access to any menus, is worse than useless except for receiving voice calls. Imagine being unable to read all the texts that can be heard arriving. And it can’t even be backed up. The Goat has tried and failed to switch on Bluetooth by Braille, and suspects another new handset may be in order.

]}:-{>

Shooed away

To my surprise and irritation, I was refused admission to one of Abu Dhabi’s watering holes one evening last week. A quick check of the posted rules revealed that I was not a member of this private club, and I’d not submitted copies of my passport, visa, liquor licence and two mugshots. But that wasn’t the reason for not being allowed in.

I wasn’t wearing a kandoura either, so that also wasn’t the reason.

I was, in fact, wearing casual business attire, with long trousers and a long-sleeved open-collared shirt. But, disastrously, I was wearing Birkenstocks. And this alone was apparently sufficient to prove that I was undesirable.

Actually, the dress code posted at the entrance permits sandals up until 7pm, at which time the landlord presumably rings a bell and the Sandal Gestapo throw out anyone who’s not wearing closed shoes. Except women, of course. Despite there being absolutely no gender bias in the written rules, it’s only those of a male persuasion who are persecuted in this way. The management had no problem with my Beloved Wife and her flip-flops, nor any of the other women in the place.

Yet that a month or so earlier, I was allowed to exchange my money for liquor in the same place without being challenged about my choice of footwear.

In a different bar on another occasion, I was only allowed to join my drinking buddies after pointing out that I’d recently had surgery, and that wearing closed shoes was impossible. The manager reluctantly allowed us in provided we sat in the naughty corner where none of the other patrons could see my feet. Later that evening, a group of Emiratis turned up in their national dress and were quite happily served beers. So much for the theory that suggests the anti-sandals rule is to ensure that everyone seen drinking does not appear to be a Muslim. This is utterly ridiculous: changing your attire doesn’t change your religion, and open-toed shoes prove absolutely nothing about someone’s beliefs.

The truth is simply that I hate wearing shoes.

There’s nothing like several hours a day in closed footwear to bring on an attack of Tinea pedis, or possibly even Aphtae epizooticae, and that’s even with clean socks daily, not wearing the same shoes on consecutive days and Dr Scholl’s Anti-Fungal Spray (Catering Pack), and sandals offer a sensible compromise where going barefoot would be considered too weird.

The Sandal Gestapo even appeared at work. Apparently it’s a Health and Safety issue. But the traditionally-attired Omani PRO is apparently immune to all forms of foot injury. As are all women. What is on the Y chromosome that makes guys’ feet so fragile? It’s only blokes who are apparently vulnerable to having their tootsies damaged in the office. Note that: in the office, not on a construction site or while riding a motorbike.

I continue to find it ludicrous that I have to dress as if it’s a wet winter Wednesday in Wigan in order to impress the client and his cronies in their loose flowing robes and sandals.

And no, wearing sandals does not make me want to dispose of my SUV in an environmentally responsible manner and instead ride a homespun organic bicycle.

]}:-{>

Merry Christmas!

Put the turkey
In the oven,
Mummified in tinfoil,
With an onion
Stuffed up
Its behind.

Sage and onion,
Roast potatoes;
Put the sprouts on to boil.
Friends arrive,
And ply them
With red wine.

Tryptophan!
Tryptophan!
Ten-thousand calories later...
I’m a man;
I’ve a plan:
Snore through the film on TV.

]}:-{>

München Wurst

So what exactly are the official holidays? With UAE National Day falling on the ever-predictable 2nd December, it was reasonably safe to infer well in advance that Thursday would be a day off. Islamic New Year, on the other hand, was going to be a different matter.

As usual, the date of 1st Muharram would be subject to seeing the new moon on the previous evening around sunset. In the UAE, the astronomical new moon was going to occur on Sunday 5th December at 9:36pm. This is well after sunset and moonset as eny fule kno, therefore the new moon would surely be spotted on Monday 6th December and the New Year holiday would be on Tuesday.

Except the gubmint decreed about three days in advance that the public sector would have Sunday for New Year (making a four day weekend – huzzah!) That same gubmint instructed that the private sector would have Saturday off for New Year. Anyone who has a two-day weekend in the UAE will instantly realize that this is a chiz: having your holiday on a normal weekend.

It is high time that public and private sectors had the same official holidays. Come to that, publishing the holidays well in advance so that we can actually plan ahead might be nice. The date and time of the new moon isn’t magic: anyone reading this is surely connected to the Interwebz, small parts of which are dedicated to publishing the dates and times of movements across the celestial sphere.

On with the story, and Beloved Wife gleefully emailed the information regarding her long weekend. Having failed to get a holiday decision out of De Management, the Goat booked Sunday as annual leave and then booked flights and hotels. Goat and Wife were off to Bavaria! Dust off the winter woollies, and in the Goat’s case unearth a pair of chunky boots. These have steel toecaps and therefore go down well through airport security.

It was going to be more practical to fly from Abu Dhabi to Munich than from Dubai via Istanbul, so Etihad became the airline of choice. We were deposited in a sub-zero and snowy Munich at some obscene hour of Thursday morning. Once we’d figured out the cheapest way to get to the hotel by train, an all-day, all-zone family ticket for €18, we rolled into town past Christmassy scenery as the train filled with commuters. At the Novotel München Messe the receptionist was happy to let us have our room immediately rather than wait until mid-afternoon to check in, so we collapsed for a few hours to recover from the red-eye flight.

München Messe is a new, modern development on the site of the former Riem airport. The Novotel is astonishingly close to a metro station, which made travel in and out of town spectacularly easy, as we discovered once we arose at the crack of noon.

The primary purpose of the visit was to explore the famous German Christmas markets that spring up in clusters all over cities in Germany and beyond. It’s not only glass ornaments and wooden mobiles for sale.

One of the Wurst things that can happen

Street food is also very much in evidence, as are hot drinks. We both spent the days and evenings living on Bratwurst, Currywurst mit Pommes Frites, and various flavours of Glühwein and Eierpunsch. The latter is, of course, very similar to eggnog, and all beverages are gratuitously alcoholic. Beware the Kinderpunsch that looks and tastes similar but is disastrously devoid of alcohol.

Beloved Wife advised that there was a very large and famous Christkindlmarkt in Nürnberg (or ‘Nuremberg’ for those who don’t have an umlaut on the keyboard (which is a right pain when writing about Germany)), so one day we took a day trip through the magical snowscape of Bavaria in winter. Nürnberg was indeed very much as advertised, complete with oompah band and sub-zero temperatures. As in München, plenty of locals, expats and tourists were happy to engage in conversations in a mixture of English and German.

Hospice of the Holy Spirit, Nürnberg

From a railway carriage

Listen to the band

Many sausages, beers, Glühweins and Christmas ornaments later, we reeled unsteadily back to the railway station and caught the fast train back to München Hauptbahnhof. Despite the tales of woe on the TV about how this disastrous and unprecedented snow was affecting transport across Europe and completely halting all movement in the UK, our experience was that everything was working to timetable in Bavaria. Unprecedented? It snows every winter, and the only unusual thing about 2010 is that it came a bit early.

Marianplatz, München

The public transport ticketing in and around Munich is very similar to the systems we encountered in Rome and Naples earlier this year. You can buy a single ticket at a machine at the station or on the bus or tram, you frank it yourself, and then it’s good for a couple of hours. Or you buy one of a selection of all-day or all-week passes. There is no need to get yourself to the Hauptbahnhof in order to buy a smart card that you then have to preload with credit before you use public transport. Dubai, take note. The system relies very much on trust; it would be incredibly easy to ride for free. In all our travels only one metro employee produced an ID card and asked for Fahrkarten bitte. I conclude that the fines for getting caught fare-dodging are extremely punitive, or that Germans are incredibly law abiding, or some combination of the above.

It wasn’t all eating and drinking. I did something for the first time in my life: I walked on the natural ice covering Nymphenburger Schloß ornamental canal.

So the Goat can indeed walk on water – something he had hitherto only suspected.

Others were playing ice hockey or a game similar to curling, and in a random walk through Narnia a Munich park, we discovered children tobogganing.

Narnia?

Wheeee!

My extolling the virtues of German organisation went awry when I tried to send the Nanny Goat a Christmas card. Could I find a post box anywhere? Eventually the unposted card ended up on the airside of Munich airport. I asked in the shop that sold postcards and souvenirs where I could mail a card, only to be told unhelpfully: “Unmöglich”. If it is indeed impossible, why do you sell the damned postcards? Beloved Wife resolved the problem by smiling sweetly at Etihad ground staff and asking the nice lady to post this envelope when she got off shift. And I’m pleased to report that the card duly arrived chez Nanny Goat less than a week later.

We both slept on the return flight to Abu Dhabi. This was just as well because I drove straight to work. Meanwhile, Beloved Wife had to get back to Dubai before reporting for duty on Monday morning. To my delight, De Management had finally made a decision regarding holidays and decreed that my office would be closed on Tuesday. I spent most of the holiday recovering from the ravages of time zones and tryptophan.

]}:-{>

Return to the Yaristocracy

It seems that the Yaristocratic masses have mucked up Hertz’ business plan. Presumably there is an average rental income gleaned off each car before its residual value starts to get badly affected by large numbers on the odometer, and having the Goat and all the other Dubai to Abu Dhabi Yaristocrats each whacking 2000km on it every week does not suit the business plan at all. Consequently, despite a signed rental agreement to the contrary, Hertz changed the ‘unlimited’ part of its terms and conditions while the Goat was swanning around Italy, and capped the monthly distance at 4000km with any excess charged at 30 fils per kilometre. And that’s rather a lot of additional cost at the end of the month.

This is not good for the Goat’s finances, so following some fervent bleating, he got the 4000km changed to 5000km. Meanwhile, alternative options are being sought.

One of the alternatives is only available in Dubai. It’s a combination of bus and metro.

The Goat’s previous experience, reported here, was not altogether good, with the main problem being having to buy (as in hand over cash in advance of any actual fare) a prepayment ‘nol’ card and charge it with credit prior to embarking on the journey. Having done this, there were two dirhams of credit remaining at the end of the return journey and, it being late evening, there was no apparent way of recharging the card for next time. Another issue was the inane muzak on the train, although the Goat is pleased to note that this has apparently now ceased. Good riddance.

The Goat was recently invited over to Chateau Dogs in Arabian Ranches. He doesn’t drink and drive, so public transport was a compulsory option. The first problem was recharging the ‘nol’ card. Per Dubai RTA’s website, nowhere in Mirdif can do it. On-line recharge is, after a year, ‘coming soon’. So His Caprinity had to stop off at a metro station while Yarising his way back from Abu Dhabi.

Brilliant! You need to travel by private, personal transport in order to be permitted to use the public transport system. What genius thought that one up?

Having credit, the journey from Mirdif to Rashidiya to Mall of the Emirates to Arabian Ranches only cost five dirhams... and took two and a quarter hours. Most of this was in air-conditioned comfort; almost none was spent standing around awaiting connections. And here is a fundamental problem with the system in its current incarnation: it’s mind-numbingly slow. The Filipino crossing himself and kissing his crucifix when the Arabian Ranches feeder bus set off was also less than confidence-inspiring.

The taxi home took 20 minutes, cost less than Dh50, including tip, and deposited the Goat right outside the Crumbling Villa. Not that there were any buses or trains running in the wee small hours.

Despite Ibn Battuta mall being open until midnight, for example, the last metro finishes at Rashidiya terminal at 11pm, so you’ve got to finish your shopping, restaurant or cinema by 9:30pm at the latest in order to stand any chance of getting back to Mirdif. In a society where many families apparently don’t even consider dragging their children out to the mall until 9pm, it doesn’t make the metro the most convenient option, does it?

]}:-{>

No kidding

Gleaned from all over the internet, here is some helpful guidance for anyone considering the middle east as a destination...





























]}:-{>

Jet plane

"All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.
I'm standin' here outside your door..."

Away for a whole week, and just for a change it's not Cyprus but In-Ger-Land. Regrettably, Beloved Wife has to stay behind because of work commitments and also because of co-producin', co-directin', props-buyin', programme-designin', programme-printin', scenery-buildin', set-paintin', publicity-obtainin', poster-distributin', rehearsal-attendin', social-organisin' for the ever-givin', cool-fizzin' Dubai Drama Group...

I have appointments with friends, boats, warm flat beer, the UK's rail network, and not least my sister and my extremely-soon-to-be-a-brother-in-law. The last bit is the real reason for spending the rest of the month in Blighty.

(I was going to call this post "Bridezilla III", but I didn't dare)

]}:-{>

Hogmanay

Christmas was a modest, quiet affair at the Crumbling Villa. Just the two of us, with Yours Truly handling the dinner while Beloved Wife discharged her contractual obligations by working until mid afternoon. We opened presents and then ate, before settling down to the traditional post-Christmas bloat in front of the telly. One of the gifts I received was the extremely practical flag - hand embroidered appliqué, no less - for attaching to the Goatmobile when desert driving. Other stuff included a book on how to deal with an architect and a “Teach Yourself Greek” computer program suite. As we’re heading down the self-build route for a house in Cyprus, these will be most welcome. You can tell if the software is effective if blogs start appearing by possibly some variant of Ο Τράγος Γκρινιάρης.

The Goat and his Beloved Wife decided weeks ago that seeing in the New Year would certainly not involve expensive tickets to a noisy bar or nightclub. Notwithstanding the dubious allure of ‘free selected beverages all night’ or a ‘glass of bubbly at midnight’, there are many more satisfactory ways to celebrate the annual December to January rollover.

We decided to go camping. The Yellow Box of Doom and his co-pilot would be joining us, as would various diving buddies, work associates and friends of friends. The guest list, including the ‘probably’ and ‘maybe’ brigades started to become long. At the actual event, it’d dwindled down to four cars: the Goatmobile, the YBOD, Louise with toddler offspring and two friends and, joining us after dark because he had to work until late, Louise’s hubby.

As it turned out, all of Dubai’s New Year celebrations were reported cancelled in the 31st December newspapers. To show solidarity, we’re told. I imagine a lot of very upset people. Not just the punters with their now worthless admission tickets, but the events organisers whose venues would spend all night impersonating an English seaside resort on a wet winter Wednesday. Quite how cancelling all New Year revelling in Dubai serves to benefit Palestine’s stand against the Zionist menace seems unclear...

I’d previously located a spot that would be easy 4x4 access for inexperienced drivers to negotiate in the dark. It was off the E77 near The Tiger Woods sandpit golf course and far enough out of town to avoid light pollution and traffic roar. Co-pilot brought along a couple of packs of Cyalume glow sticks. The idea was that the route to the camp site would be signposted with these to augment the sketch map and directions. In the event, only one vehicle would be arriving late, so I simply drove back to the road and escorted Colin to the camp site.

The Box o’Doom is now proudly adorned with a roof tent. [SMUGMODE] No sand in the bed for that couple, we were repeatedly assured. [/SMUGMODE] I’ve only recently come away from the Desert Challenge, so can unpack and erect my dome tent, pneumatic mattress et al in not very much time at all. This leaves more time for the serious business of Hogmanay: the beverages. Meanwhile Louise’s team struggled with an enormous double dome Pleasure Palace with entry hall, separate majlis and snooker room, which would have blotted out the sun had this not already retreated below the western horizon.

With fire pit dug, tiki torches lit and barbecue poised for sacrifice of meat products, I realised that we were actually closer to the road than I’d previously imagined. We could just see the street lights and could hear the constant low rumble of heavy trucks. Nevertheless, suggestions that we relocate further into the desert were met with howls of derision and anguish.

As the crescent moon and Venus both set, we’d have an excellent view of the canopy of stars. But alas, this was not to be. The stars vanished, as did the street lights. Fog had rolled in making visibility probably twenty metres or less. I’ve had dives with better viz. And it didn't arrive on little cat feet either. This sort of fog stomped in wearing wellies: the damp, cloying, soggy, wet stuff of Charles Dickens or Sherlock Holmes, leaving the cars, tents and camping gear all dripping with water. We huddled closer to the campfire, ate our barbecued food, drank, and chatted until midnight. Alcohol-induced wit, jokes and confessions whiled away the damp couple of hours until midnight.

Immediately after the Witching Hour, despite the crescent moon having set some hours previously, a display of full moons inexplicably occurred. There are positively no photos of that rather debauched spectacle.

My al cheabo tent was more or less waterproof. I suspect the little dampness within may have been condensation. Bearing in mind it was bought yonks ago at an Ace Hardware sale, I still think it represents excellent value. I would not attempt to use the same tent in a UK environment; not even in August. That said, with mattress and feather quilt and pillows, Beloved Wife and I had a comfortable and warm night, only occasionally punctuated by my phone bleating every time a new text message arrived.

What a splendid start to 2009! Bright, sunny and warm. No trace remained of last night’s fog apart from dew on all surfaces. All the happy and/or hungover campers assembled and fired up their gas stoves for a monstrous fry-up predominantly comprising haraaminal washed down with steaming mugs of tea, coffee or chocolate. During breakfast we were visited by an enormous herd of camels, which fascinated the toddler. When you’re two, camels must appear enormous; not that this dissuaded him from chasing them. By the time breakfast was complete the sun had pretty much dried the tents, so these could be struck and packed. We swept the campsite for trash to bag and remove, before making biodegradable tracks back to the highway and splitting up to go home.

To our annoyance it turns out that our broadband internet connection has failed. Surfing, blogging and Amazon will be on Ye Olde Dialle-Uppe until we carry out our New Year Resolution and get Itisalot to restore a decent connection. Hope springs eternal.

]}:-{>

Infamy, infamy

I see Michelle Palmer has at last spoken out concerning that 'beach romp' incident. It was, we're told, "...a stitch-up from day one."

All's well that ends well, however. According to this, large sums of money are likely to change hands for lurid "My Hell in Al Slammah" sensationalist journalism. But given the high profile of the case, wasn't this inevitable? Half a million quid each for Ms Palmer and Mr Vince Acors for getting boozed up and then not having sex. I wonder if there would have been nearly as much media attention (yes, including this blog) if the authorities had merely pursued charges of Drunk and Disorderly, Offensive Behaviour and Assaulting a Police Officer? I suspect not, and in any case there would then have been no accusations of a cultural schism; those three charges would probably earn an arrest anywhere on the planet.

Nevertheless, given that the deportation sentence hasn't yet been carried out, I would counsel Ms Palmer to keep her beans thoroughly unspilled. It is not too late to face new charges of perhaps 'showing the UAE's legal system in an unflattering light.'

I am irresistably reminded of Queen Elizabeth in Blackadder II when she advised Lord Percy: "It's up to you. Either you can shut up, or you can have your head cut off."

]}:-{>

My eyes are fully open

If I had the misfortune to live in a flat in Sharjah
Where a beer is not permitted, and the rent is getting larger,
Public transport's non-existent and my bicycle's illegal,
And to get to work on time I'd have to turn into an eagle,

I would leave at 5am, sit in my air-conditioned motor,
(A Ford perhaps, but probably more likely a Toyota),
And listen to the radio or maybe read the paper,
And learn about the latest, tallest, most expensive caper.

But it really doesn't matter (matter, matter, matter, matter)
But it really doesn't matter (matter, matter, matter, matter)
When transportation is the only thing of which we chatter,
If they make it any worse, it isn't really gonna matter.


The RTA's solution that is offered for the crisis
Is to get us all to understand that public transport nice is
If you never have to take an awkward package to Jumeira
And the bus is never late (a situation getting rarer)

And there isn't any problem walking to the metro station
Where you loiter in the heat with folk from every other nation.
Capacity exceeded on the first day of the service?
If I had thought it up, I would by now be getting nervous.

But it really doesn't matter (matter, matter, matter, matter)
But it really doesn't matter (matter, matter, matter, matter)
The RTA executives, all led by Mr M*****:
They know it all, and everybody else just doesn't matter.


There isn't any way you can avoid the toll called Salik
So you pay and shrug your shoulders in a manner that is Gallic.
You can pay again each year when you go off for registration;
You can pay to park the car - but there's no parking at the station.

If you want to share commuting costs, you'd better have permission,
For control by Central Government is all part of the Vision,
And if you've any money after paying this year's rental
You can buy some local real estate, assuming that you're mental.

But it really doesn't matter (matter, matter, matter, matter)
But it really doesn't matter (matter, matter, matter, matter)
You thought you'd get a visa if you went and bought a flat, or
Spent your money on a villa. Were you madder than a hatter?

This particularly rapid, unintelligible patter
Isn't generally heard, and if it is, it doesn't matter.


Idea, rhythm, tune and last two lines pinched from W.S.G. and A.S.S.

]}:-{>

Planes, trains, automobiles and boats

New year fireworks in London. It certainly seemed like a good idea when first mooted back in August.

Beloved Wife and her Goat have done the whole marriage thing in an odd order. Following the August wedding, we had a December honeymoon in the Maldives (story to follow...), which was in turn hotly pursued by two weeks in Ing-Er-Land over the Christmas and New Year period. The Goat got his friend, Mr Lawful Good of Cowplain (LGoC) to arrange the venue for a post-nuptial shindig so that a crowd of those who couldn't make it to the States in August could meet up for beer and buffet.

Dubai Drama Group's Guards! Guards! curtain closed on 15th December. Goat and Beloved Wife headed straight off to the airport with diving equipment. A week later we were back in Dubai doing circuits and bumps. We dropped off our dive kit at home, grabbed our winter woollies and went straight back to the airport.

At six in the morning on Christmas Day we arrived at a damp Gatwick and picked up the rental car. I expressed the opinion to the guy at Immigration that he ought to be on double time. He smugly replied that he was on triple time plus a day off in lieu, and of course he wouldn't have to eat any Brussels sprouts. We took the pretty way to Plymouth, as defined by the GPS as the shortest route, passing through many small villages early enough to see some stirrings of small children keen to discover what Santa had left for them.


Then we stopped off briefly at Stonehenge in the rain to experience the full wet chalk experience. Stonehenge was shut apart from the loo, and security guards were there to keep the solstice latecomers out. I suspect Security reckoned that the besandalled couple in black were neopagans in a horribly wrong time zone. It finally stopped raining as we drove over Dartmoor and headed south into Plymouth. As I said, it was the pretty way.

Christmas dinner was scheduled for the evening because of our late arrival at Nanny Goat's. There was time for presents and even a brief nap before the traditional impossibly gargantuan pile of food appeared. And disappeared. What can I say? I was hungry, having only eaten aircraft food for about 36 hours! And contrary to popular belief, there are actually those who like sprouts, even if - nay, especially if - they've not been on the boil since Thanksgiving.

The next couple of days saw my young nephews playing with their new IR-controlled helicopters (ex Dragon Mart, and possibly the only ones in the country.) I hope the helicopters last longer than the polystyrene flying saucers did. An added Christmas bonus was that the kids got their artwork into the January 2008 issue of Dive magazine, courtesy of a hand-drawn birthday card from them to me and a suggestion from Beloved Wife.

Then we headed off to Gosport in Hampshire (where, as in Hertford and Hereford, hurricanes are seldom experienced). We went via Bristol. There is very little scope for entertainment in Bristol on a cold and soggy Friday afternoon, so we went on a pub crawl and took in some exquisite beer and food. Thanks to Simon and Clare for entertaining and accommodating us. I am fascinated by Simon and Clare's iPhones, but am probably too technologically incompetent to own one, even if they did work here in the Land of the Sand.

The Clarence Tavern hosted our shindig. Around twenty people showed up for beer and snacks. The brief of 'dead things on sticks' manifested as a vast cold buffet primarily consisting of curly-tailed products. And the beer was only excellent. Driving was clearly very unwise, so Beloved Wife and I stayed the night in the smallest and probably hottest bedroom in town.


Mr and Mrs LGoC own a boat. Jedi is a 32-foot cabin cruiser moored at Sunbury on Thames. She's their third boat, each being larger than the previous one. Jedi is powered by a pair of elderly Perkins diesel inboards that are older than Mrs LGoC. The engines are inevitably named 'Luke' and 'Leia' and are both reliable, but Leia smokes too much and, like most of the vessel, is in need of some TLC. That said, Jedi floats, runs and there's on-board heat, light and cooking. There's even a civilised shower and toilet head.


We set off from Sunbury at around midday on 30th December and headed downstream towards the City of London. In keeping with traditional custom and practice, all the locks were set against us, requiring waiting around at Molesey, Teddington and especially Richmond before we got on to the tidal Thames.

We had an appointment at St Kat's. The single lock gate to St Katharine Haven is open for fewer than two hours or so either side of high water. Unfortunately, and unbeknown to us, the lock gate had become broken and it would be impossible to get a boat either in or out. St Kat's chose to inform us of us this by leaving their phone off the hook and refusing to respond to marine VHF calls. We eventually ended up further downstream at South Dock Marina in Greenwich. Fortuitously, this turned out to be cheaper than St Kat's, mains electricity was included, and we were conveniently located for the Thames passenger ferries and a half-decent shopping centre. There were no decent pubs immediately apparent, but we'd brought a vast stock of Special Beverage for consumption on board, so this wasn't a major problem.

We set off upstream to Blackfriars on the ferry at about 9pm on New Year's Eve and found a spot on the Embankment to view the fireworks. The ferry wasn't allowed any nearer to the London Eye than Blackfriars; apparently there was a barge moored in the Thames that was chock full of explosives. The whole area quicky filled with revellers and, despite the cold and rain, by midnight the whole place was heaving with probably over a million partygoers. The spectacular fireworks display - and it was spectacular - was dampened somewhat by the mist and rain that caused thick clouds of gunpowder smoke to hang over the City and obscure some of the pyrotechnics. I love the smell of gunpowder in the morning... Getting back to the ferry proved problematic. There were so many people that the Embankment was standing room only and breathing by numbers, as we tripped and stumbed over empty beer cans, champagne bottles and miscellaneous inebriates.

The wet weather cleared up somewhat over the next day or so. New Year's Day involved the traditional lie-in and late breakfast. But clear skies mean cold, and the mercury only just crept above freezing, which is a bit of a shock if you've just come from the tropics! Beloved Wife declared that on 2nd January she wished to go shopping in London, so we agreed that she's head back to Cowplain by rail while the rest of us would take Jedi back to Sunbury and then meet her at the station. I treated the LGsoC to some diesel from the fuel barge moored near Tower Bridge. We bounced against the barge while fuelling up with red diesel at a rather frightening 50p a litre (AED17 a gallon) but nowhere near as scary as the £1.04 a litre (AED35 a gallon) petrol for the hire car.

On a clear day in January the Thames is a chilly place. There was little other river traffic apart from some nutters sculling on the non-tidal Thames. It is a curious thing how different rowers react to larger craft. Obviously a 32-foot Coronet cabin cruiser can produce an enormous wash, so it is incumbent on the skipper to keep the speed down. If you're rowing on the river, effectively sitting astride an overgrown matchstick, you will not appreciate being swamped by a big boat's wake. So when near scullers, I slowed to tickover, the absolute minimum possible speed that doesn't involve anchoring. One group of rowers wished us a Happy New Year and thanks for slowing down; another bellowed indignantly that we were going too fast. It takes all sorts. Finally back in Cowplain, we all had a massive chip-shop feast.

Beloved Wife and I did a little sightseeing in and around Portsmouth until our desperately early departure for the airport on 4th January. I stupidly managed to leave my mobile phone behind, and the new handset and alternative SIM card have both vanished from home in Mirdif. We have turned the villa upside down in a vain search for the Nokia that I specifically did not take on holiday. My enforced new year's resolution appears for the time being to stay away from mobile telephones.

Goat Hill

I am the type who'll sometimes buy a product solely because of the packaging. But does anyone know what Goat Hill Pale Ale tastes like? More to the point, is it worth getting a case or two in for the wedding?

BTW thanks to Mme Cyn for giving me a tee shirt with the Goat Hill logo.

Air and water

Last weekend I took some advice often given to bloggers and got out more. Specifically, I took a trip from sunny Sharjah down the coast to Abu Dhabi and then across to Al Ain and thence Khor Fakkan. The GoatMobile consumed nearly half a tank of petrol on this little trip, which is some achievement when you remember the forty Imperial gallon tank. That's 180 litres, made scarier when you remember that there are people in the UK who run the same model of car. Ouch, expense.

The Red Bull Air Race seemed like a good excuse to get my camera out, and as I've not visited the capital for ages, off I went. Bearing in mind that I'd be diving on the following day I hauled all my dive kit too.

Traffic on Abu Dhabi corniche was predictably chaotic. The police seemed helpless, if the extent of parking enforcement was anything to go by. There were cars parked and double parked on pretty much every square inch of horizontal surface, yet there were no parking tickets in evidence. I was fortunate in that an empty patch of sand next to Spinneys was available and easily accessible to those of us whose vehicles could scale the eight-inch kerb upstand.


Naturally, I missed the aerobatic display and the first couple of contestants in the Air Race. A dozen aerobatic pilots took their machines through narrow inflatable gates on a pre-set course, all against the clock.




Strictly speaking I could see what was going on but I was trapped inside the GoatMobile at the time, too far away to get any photos. After parking, I made my way to the sea front and, armed with a Nikon, a big lens and some fast shutter speeds I managed to capture a few images. Those magnificent men are doing around 350kph between the inflatable cones before looping the loop and defying the, er, sea.


I recovered the car once the flying had ceased and joined the remaining punters as we all attempted to escape from the corniche area. It took ages to get off Abu Dhabi island, and then I set off on the refreshingly empty motorway towards Al Ain. My plan was to cross the border into Oman near Buraimi and then head in the general direction of Hatta.

I've not been to Al Ain for ages either. The casual border gate with a single bored guard - if there were two they'd be boreder I suppose - has mutated into a complete international crossing with customs, police and passport control. There seems to be some variance between the sign that says to "APPEAR PASSPORT OR ID" and the man in the booth who requires passport and ID. Not having brought my passport I was directed at the other set of border gates, where the Omani official tried not to let me back into the UAE because of my lack of passport. "But that's why they won't let me leave. So I'm not entering the UAE because I never left."

Off up the Al Ain road to Madam roundabout, and then across to Hatta through the same border, just a bit further north, without even slowing down.

Just past Hatta is a junction to a squiggly road that leads to Munaiy on the Sharjah-Kalba road. Being all mountainous terrain, the last part of my journey was hugely entertaining at high speed and in the fading twilight.

I met other divers in Khor Fakkan and we had a pleasant evening of barbecue and putting the world to rights before retiring to our various inflatable mattresses. Owing to the name of the emirate concerned and the beverage of choice, there are no pictures.

The diving on Saturday was very refreshing. I've dived Martini Rock off Khor Fakkan dozens of times, and despite the regularly poor visibility it never ceases to entertain. But I've not dived Inchcape 10 before. Lying just off Fujairah, I hope to dive it a lot more. The wreck is teeming with life.


I saw a new species of nudibranch (well new to me, unless it's a variant of these)


and the biggest nudibranch I've ever seen.


Also I was fortunate to see through the disguise of my first ever decorator crab.


The moray, hiding in an old tyre, was crying out to be photographed.

The water temperature is still a little chilly. It's in the low to mid twenties Celsius. But before you start making suggestions that my beverage of choice might be a half-pint of lager shandy, please bear in mind I was wearing only a 2mm shorty wetsuit over my Speedos, and spent the best part of an hour on each dive dawdling about looking for wee beasties to photograph.