Thus began a week or so with five of us flying out to Greece, there picking up regular ferries to hop around five Greek islands before returning to Athens and flying home. We took backpacks but no tents and spent the entire time sleeping outdoors in dedicated sites. It never rained, fortunately.

I knew two of the other four people who went on the trip: Jason Roberts (who organised most of it) and Matthew Kopinski. The other two were friends of Jason’s but their names escape me.

Travelling outside the country without parents was exciting, from the flight there to picking up the various ferries jumping between island and island and finding the correct buses to get us to camp sites. Ferry travel was very memorable for the uniformly dreadful conditions of the toilets on board and the extreme tilt most of them had when battered by the wind.

One memory from one of the ferry trips was finding ourselves seated behind what appeared to be gorgeous Greek women, trying to encourage each other to approach them, only to have one turn around and us all catch sight of a pretty thick moustache.

The five islands we hit were Ios, Naxos, Paros, Syros, and Mykonos.

The island featured in the image below holds a special memory for me as one evening before heading out to the nearby bars and clubs we experienced an earthquake. It’s the only earthquake I’ve ever felt and the best way I’ve got to describe it is like a juggernaut thundering past your room only in complete silence; there were vibrations and a feeling of swaying from side to side but no noise at all. It was interesting to see how many other people in the camp site suddenly looked around at each other with the same expression of “Was that a…?” on their faces.

Other memories of the Greek islands holiday:

• Waking up with a rash on my leg one morning I had to visit the local hospital as it was Sunday and there was nothing else available. There, in a room with the door open to other people in the waiting room and in front of a group of three doctors, all smoking, I was gestured to drop my trousers and then given a prescription without a word. I took my pills. I went out drinking. Later that night I don’t remember very much at all other than being told to get off the bar I was laying on by a barman and walking back to the camp site on my own, pausing for a while on the beach to stare at the Milky Way. On my return to England my doctor informed me that I’d been prescribed strong tranquiliser. For insect bites.
• One morning I awoke to find a woman undressing directly in front of me. I pretended to be still asleep but caught the eye of one of my trip companions who smiled at me as we secretly enjoyed the strip show.
• On one of the islands our camping area backed onto a stone wall and we discovered at night that it was home to a large number of rats. One of my companions tried to block up the holes in the wall with containers of jam which the rats took great pleasure in removing.
• We met up with a pair of American doctors at one point who persuaded us to engage in some special dance moves in an otherwise Greek-filled club; most moves were ignored – the fly fishing dance, for instance – but when we all pretended to be Raymond Burr getting shot at the beginning of Ironside and all fell down to the ground as one we found ourselves the centre of a ring of very puzzled-looking people.
• We got boisterous in a bar and started dragging other people up onto the dance floor. I have a vivid memory of dancing to Don’t You Forget About Me by Simple Minds with two Danish girls. I also was thanked profusely by a man who’d wanted to dance, and wanted to dance with one of the girls in particular, but hadn’t worked up the courage until I dragged them up together.
• We walked off the beaten path into a local bar at one point where everyone turned to look at us as we entered. Not wanting to appear scared and back away we asked for drinks from a surly, silent barman – Bacardi and Coke was popular with us – where we discovered local Greek measures away from the tourist areas leaned towards the 20:1 ratio in favour of alcohol. We got very, very drunk.

We finished our trip with a few hours in Athens before flying home.

Yes, Ireland is not part of the United Kingdom and therefore foreign, but they speak English, and many of them in an accent that’s actually comprehensible. Not my uncle Stephen, but that’s why his wife Sarah is always around to translate the lilting mumbles.

Ah! Mmmm mm mmm gh, ha ha! Hey! Mmm mmmm, mmng mmm.

He said he flipped the tractor over in the ditch last week.

I know they also speak some form of English in Canada, the USA, and those former colonies in the southern hemisphere, but you can reach Ireland by a reasonably short ferry ride so you can see why it’s foreign, but not really.

And, the fact my uncle’s Irish should also give you a big clue that one of my parents is as well, and that happens to be my mum. Ireland is a second home nation for me and my brother and so any trips there aren’t to foreign parts. That’s like a legal argument or something.

So, Ireland: not foreign. But Mallorca: very foreign.

Clearly, package holidays were becoming easier to book, perhaps through things like Ceefax and Teletext services on the television (I’ve got a vague memory of my parents watching the pages flip over and making notes), and clearly my parents were doing well enough to switch from nobody letting you pay for a thing across the Irish Sea to splashing the cash on flights, transfers, and hotel accommodation in the Mediterranean.

The hotel we stayed at was the Amapola and it appears to still be there in more-or-less a similar layout as my photos and memories attest to, although a little swankier these days. The area of Mallorca in which the Hotel Amapola was located was Alcudia, situated on the northeast coast of the island. The hotel was set around a hundred metres or so back from the beach and on the edge of a decent-sized lake on which it was possible to take out pedalos and pedal around. And we did.

The big draw for my dad, my brother, and me was the swimming pool. You don’t get outdoor swimming pools very often in the UK, or you don’t get many that you’d want to swim in anyway. That’s the sort of experience that really makes it a holiday. You’ll note that my mum wasn’t included in that list of people enjoying the pool. She never did learn to swim, but she still liked it beside the pool, if not in it. She could sunbathe, she could smoke, she could get drinks delivered to her (we were on an all-inclusive basis), she could flirt with the staff in a way that only just stopped from being full-on sexual harassment; she was happy.

My brother learnt to dive while we holidayed at the Hotel Amapola in Alcudia, and I learnt to surf on a lilo. I’m going to be honest with you here and point out that neither skill has really been used since but they say that lilo-surfing is like riding a bike, and once you learn it’s with you for life, so consider me prepared for whatever the world throws at me so long as there’s water around and an inflatable bed to hand.

The hotel guests were a mixture of British and German tourists for the most part. My understanding is that this is broadly true of Mallorca as a whole and that you’ll likely find certain hotels favour one nationality over another in order to simplify needing multiple languages for announcements, menus, entertainment, etc. While the Amapola was mixed during our stay, I believe that it caters more predominantly for Germans these days. But when are these days? I don’t know when you’re reading this. Check it out yourself before booking.

Activities were arranged at the hotel and clearly my dad took part in some of them as we have photographic evidence.

With our holiday being all-inclusive and my family wanting to take full advantage of it – plus we were all new to foreign travel; there weren’t blogs you could read or videos you could quickly call up – most of our time was spent at the hotel. However, we did venture out on occasion.

The lake at the back of the hotel had a path that could be walked around and I recall that we did that. I also remember people jogging along it. Jogging. On holiday. Madness.

As I’ve mentioned before, there was also a beach a short distance from the hotel. Getting to it and the assorted tourist shops, supermarkets, and restaurants that had sprung up to service the beach crowd involved a walk of just a few minutes but part of that was over what seemed to be an outlet for raw sewage. If I think about it then I can still smell it now. The mind’s a weird thing. After our first experience of crossing this stream of evil we took to sprinting across this stretch of road with hands over our mouths and noses.

The beach at Alcudia was amazing. Sand was amazing to people who’d lived in Portsmouth all of their lives and known only pebbles and shingles and saying “Ooh, ouch, ouch, fffuuu…dge!” while trying to get from towels into water. It was golden-white sand in a crescent-shaped bay with warm water. The water was warm partly because it was the Mediterranean in summer, and partly because the water was shallow. Really shallow. Walk out until the people are ants on the beach in order to get enough depth in which to swim sort of shallow. Even my non-swimming mum was able to brave the water, safe in the knowledge that drowning was going to take a lot of effort.

In addition to shops near the beach we also ventured slightly farther afield with trips to Can Picafort, a town just along the coastline, a visit to a nearby Water Park, and even an organised excursion to the Caves of Drach. No pictures of these, though, for some reason, and not much memory of them either. While I’ve considered my parents unadventurous when it comes to holidays in latter years – Greek Islands and the Canaries on firm rotation, it’s seemed – it’s clear from thinking back that they did try to break up the monotony of simply being at a hotel with occasional forays outside. I guess it can’t have been easy to juggle the strange newness of everything, having two children, and ensuring boredom didn’t set in.

In addition to activities in and around the pool each day, Hotel Amapola provided entertainment every evening too. Music was common, but I remember my dad took part in a Mister Amapola contest (likely pushed up to enter by my mum, and he didn’t win), and it looks like everyone enjoyed the drag show.

And please ignore my red nose. I’m half Irish. Sunshine does strange things to us.

We]]> https://www.neonbubble.com/travel/amapola-alcudia-mallorca/feed/ 0 966 https://www.neonbubble.com/travel/hotel-arabian-sands-morocco-scans/ https://www.neonbubble.com/travel/hotel-arabian-sands-morocco-scans/#comments Wed, 12 Jul 2017 12:38:36 +0000 https://www.neonbubble.com/?post_type=portfolio_item&p=3502 The date of around June 1987 is a best guess here because I can’t quite remember. I do remember that we saw the James Bond movie “The Living Daylights” not long after we returned and spotted the hotel we were staying at in one of the shots.

The only non-European holiday I took with my parents when growing up was to Morocco where we spent one or two weeks at the Hotel Arabian Sands on the Atlantic coastline. I’ve looked for the place since but can’t find any reference to it online or work out its location from looking at satellite imagery of the Moroccan coast although I know I saw it had been photographed and renamed many years ago. The internet is apparently not forever.

The hotel was a sprawling complex of white, thick-walled buildings with a swimming pool, a small shop, and not much else. My brother and I had a bunk bed in the same room as my parents.

The hotel was isolated with no town anywhere near of note. A few hundred metres from the hotel was a small selection of shops and a restaurant that we visited occasionally. The restaurant had quite a large number of Barbary apes running wild in it. Despite having a reputation as a fussy eater I was the most adventurous person when it came to dining and I remember tucking into shark and swordfish on two visits while everyone else ate more “normal” food.

To get to the restaurant and shops there was a long, straight road lined with salespeople trying to hawk their wares. I remember one day we were heading to the shops with an American family with whom we’d made friends (no idea of their names but I think they were from a US airbase in the UK) with and my dad had told us all to keep walking, don’t stop, don’t interact. We duly did that and reached our destination to find my dad had been waylaid and was surrounded by a group trying to get him to buy souvenirs of some description.

As its name suggested, the Hotel Arabian Sands was close to lots of sand that made up a very golden beach facing the Atlantic. There was in fact a second beach just to the south of where we were that was fenced off and protected by armed guards as it was used by the royal family. The beach was lovely and the waves were fantastic fun to jump in.

Initially we would spend reasonably equal time in the hotel swimming pool and on the beach (both of which were used by locals as well as hotel guests) but following the discovery of a drowned local boy in the swimming pool (who my mum and another nurse tried in vain to save) and the subsequent non-cleaning of the pool despite his body having been in the water for some time the English families boycotted it.

I don’t recall doing much while on our Moroccan holiday. While these days I like to make sure I’m exploring something of interest every day when I’m away my family were much more content to lay around, reading, sunning, swimming, and drinking. There was a day trip to Tangier from the hotel on one day but I couldn’t go as I was taken ill. The rest of my family still went while I discovered the mysterious pink liquid that the American family we’d got to know had on them called Pepto-Bismol.

The highlight of the holiday in Morocco at the Hotel Arabian Sands was an evening of entertainment and dining that we attended with the American family (parents and two girls). It started outside watching horsemen ride up and down firing guns into the air, then there were opportunities to have photos taken with snakes. We then retired to large tents where we sat on cushions around low tables and ate from huge plates of couscous, bread, fruits, etc. As the evening progressed different entertainers would move from tent to tent to perform allowing us to see up close people on beds of nails, fire breathers, singers, acrobats, and belly dancers. A great excursion in what’s been to this point still the only place in Africa I’ve visited.

These photographs are possibly from 1996, possibly from 1997 or 1998, but I don’t think any later than that. Sadly, nothing on the pictures or in the Truprint folder in which I recently found them (at the back of a rarely-opened kitchen drawer) gives this away but I do know that I started working for G7 Computer Services Ltd in 1996 (the company moved and was merged with another company long after I left and no longer exists) and this has the feel of a very early office Christmas party with them. The pay may not have been great but they paid for travel, accommodation, meal, and all drinks for employees and partners at Christmas time; they were pretty good at that time of the year.

If anyone from that era of working with the Fareham-based company that was my first employer as a software developer knows the names of anyone pictured I’d love to know them too (comments can be added to the pictures themselves or I can be contacted easily enough) because my memory when it comes to names is utterly appalling. Some names I recall (and fortunately backed up by this group photograph in 2012) are: Mark Mason, Terry Roden, Keith Lucas, Neil Biltcliffe, Robert Craig. There might also be a Matt in there and John with his wife Julie, perhaps.

With our visit to Castle Cornet out of the way we made ourselves along the waterfront and its marina in order to see what might grab our attention in St Peter Port itself as up until this point we’d been exploring south of the city.

One of the reasons we’d chosen to head off away from St Peter Port in the first place was because we’d arrived on the island on a Sunday and with it being small we’d suspected that much of the city would be closed. This turned out to be mostly correct and there were only a few open shops and nothing that grabbed our attention as we hit the streets one or two back from the waterfront. There wasn’t even much of interest architecturally and I only grabbed a few shots of anything here.

We ended up hitting a few pubs in search of some local ales (and anyone who knows us knows this is not a surprising turn of events) and even had an unexpected and very pleasant conversation with the bar staff in one of them regarding the Flying Spaghetti Monster following some confusion over my Cthulhu t-shirt. Didn’t expect that to happen when we woke up that morning on board the cruise ship.

A few more photos of the marina on the way back to the tender boats (where we timed our arrival almost perfectly for just stepping on and heading straight back to the ship) concludes our very enjoyable (if you forget about Marie injuring herself on the coastal walk to the Ozanne Steps) first visit to any of the Channel Islands.

We liked what we saw of St Peter Port and there’s still a fair bit to explore of the rest of the island at some point so we’d be happy to return. The only problem with cruises is planning what to do when you get there as disembarkation is not guaranteed due to the unsheltered harbour and high tidal range so it might be a location best visited more deliberately, flying in and spending a few days, perhaps.

Guernsey In The 1980s

By way of comparison with the photos I’ve taken on our visit to Guernsey I’m now including scans of photos of my dad and a family friend, Nabil, visiting Guernsey themselves in the 1980s. I think it’s really interesting to see the unchanged and changed parts of St Peter Port in the photographs above and below.

While the in-laws had needed to use the car ferry to get from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight (on account of them taking their car, you see) we had no such limitation with the mode of transportation available and, because we’re children at heart and because it’s the best way to get there, we took the hovercraft. And why wouldn’t you? If you’re just visiting the Isle of Wight for a short trip (which is all you’ll ever need) then pick the way to get there that involves rapidly spinning propellers deafening you and a massive curtain of air bouncing you across the Solent. It’s better than I’m making it sound.

At Ryde we were met by the relations and set off to see some Wight sights. As we were all fans of seeing historical sites – we all still are – we headed first for Osborne House, former summer home for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Built in the mid-nineteenth century in the Italian Renaissance style with design input from Prince Albert, the location was chosen as the views from this part of the Isle of Wight across the Solent reminded Albert of the Bay of Naples. Having been to Naples on a couple of occasions now I can attest to the fact that drugs were obviously readily available to the royals of Victoria-era Britain.

As it was cloudy when we first arrived we visited the house to start with. Victoria liked Osborne a lot, spending time at the house several times a year both before and after Albert died. Victoria died in Osborne House in 1901 after which her son, King Edward VII, who’d never liked the building, gifted it to the state. At the time of our visit we weren’t permitted to take photographs inside Osborne (this policy has now changed) but if we had then you might have sympathised with Edward. Gaudy doesn’t even come close to the impression we had. Taste is a very subjective thing, but wow!

By the time we’d emerged from Osborne’s eye-aching interior the day had brightened up considerably and we were presented with some lovely views. Still not very Neapolitan, though.

During our time at Osborne we also took a horse-and-cart ride to see the Swiss Cottage. This building had been deconstructed, transported from Switzerland, and rebuilt in the grounds specifically for the royal children to play in. In addition, the children were given plots of land in which to grow produce and sell them to their father as a means to teach economics. I can’t imagine why Edward didn’t like the place.

From Osborne House on the north coast of the Isle of Wight we then drove across to the west side of the island to see the landmark that is The Needles. These are chalk stacks, in some ways reminiscent of the basalt stacks off southern Iceland, although, since these are English natural formations and not Icelandic ones there is no myth about them being trolls turned into stone. The name of the three stacks derives from a fourth stack that has since collapsed into the sea and which was somewhat needle-shaped; something that can’t be said for those that remain. The Jaggedy Toothy Things doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as The Needles, though.

While you could just simply admire the views from the cliffs and down to Alum Bay (where you can pick up coloured sand souvenirs) there are some activities that can be undertaken at The Needles and on this visit to the Isle of Wight we did just that. Firstly, there was a chairlift for those who didn’t want to hurl themselves off the cliff edge and trust to the softness of the sand below (other routes down may have been available). We’re fond of a chairlift, and even if the one on the Isle of Wight doesn’t quite have the altitude and distance to travel as that we rode on up the Osorno Volcano in Chile, there’s still something magical about flying out over the top of a cliff with a view to the sea, and it’s a recommended experience.

Even though this day trip to the Isle of Wight took place almost a decade before we got married and enjoyed our first cruise you can tell the love of being on the water was there from early on in our relationship (well, we are both Portsmouth people, after all) as the next thing we did was hop on a boat to get out closer to The Needles. This also brought us some lovely close-up views of the Needles Lighthouse and we do like a nice lighthouse. The one off the west coast of the island dates from the nineteenth century although some form of navigational warning beacon had been present in the area almost a century earlier. Fully automated now, it was also fully automated back then too, although it had been one of the last three lighthouses in the country to be manned, said men (or women) having last served in the structure in 1994.

There isn’t a huge amount to see and do on the Isle of Wight but we have neglected it as a place to explore and we really must make the effort to get over there again and do so. I’ll add it to the list.

My relative is Hughie, and he was my first cousin, once removed; he’s sadly no longer with us, having passed away in 2020. That’s him in the photo below pictured with some of his huskies as he used to keep them and race them most weekends, and it’s because of the huskies that he got to meet the movie stars mentioned above as it was his huskies that were driven by Angelina Jolie in the first Tomb Raider movie.

The following scans of photos were all taken from the set of the Tomb Raider movie. If they’re blurry as all hell then my cousin probably took them while the cleaner images were likely official on-set production shots given to him afterwards.

These first two were some screen tests of a husky jumping. You probably didn’t need me to explain that.

Daniel Craig driving a husky team on the set of the film.

Some photos of Angelina Jolie on set now, and even if the huskies aren’t present this was all clearly in preparation for filming scenes with them.

And finally, a signed photo from one of the non-canine stars of the film.

When my grandparents, my dad, and his brothers all returned to England they did so by ship, sailing from Singapore, through the Suez Canal, then the Mediterranean. I’ve no evidence to support it, but I’d like to think that the final photo in this set of Singapore scans might be my nanny and grandad on a formal night on the ship; it has that sort of vibe to it.

Update Jan 2026: thanks to a comment below it looks like the first couple of photos here at least are from 1946 as they seem to show Jawaharlal Nehru visiting Singapore.

Since this post of scans has touched on a couple of subjects that relate to my and my wife’s own travels, I thought I’d link to them here:

• Our visit to Singapore, 2008.
• Our 2019 cruise through the Suez Canal, northern half in fog, and southern half in sun.