Category: Articles

Haiti with no tourists, 2004

Hotel Oloffson

Pool at the Hotel Oloffson, Port-au-Prince

IN The Comedians, Graham Greene’s novel about the dark days of Haiti’s Tontons Macoute and Papa Doc, his narrator, Mr Brown, invites a friend to dinner at his hotel to meet Mr and Mrs Smith, evangelical vegetarians from the United States: “Come to dinner on Saturday… and meet the only tourists here.”

Last week in Port-au-Prince, myself and the photographer Doug McKinlay, staying at Hotel Oloffson, on which Greene based the Hotel Trianon in his 1965 bestseller, were by all accounts in the same, quite surreal, position as the Smiths. We may not have been evangelical vegetarians – the fried chicken, the steaks and lambi a la creole (conch in spicy creole sauce) were just too good to be preaching against meat-eating – but we were almost certainly the only tourists there… as almost everyone we met told us.

“You’re tourists!” exclaimed a Canadian documentary film-maker researching a series on voodoo, who joined us on the Oloffson’s gingerbread verandah on our first night, clutching a rum punch a la Joseph, Mr Browns’ limping barman (his limp post-dating a visit from the Macoute). “Hey, these guys are tourists!” he called out to his camera crew, who stared at us as though we were circus show freaks. “We never thought we’d see any tourists!”

It felt, as you might expect, extremely odd; especially with news from Gonaives coming in thick and fast. News agencies on the free internet terminal at the Oloffson reported mass burials and food riots, with “survivors drinking and cooking with water from ditches containing rotting bodies and raw sewage”. And there we were with our rum punches, lambi and bottles of Prestige beer – guiltily building up a tab. The ceiling fans whirred, the cicadas screeched and the sun set in a blaze of orange through the tropical creepers and trees down the hill towards the Presidential Palace.

The latter was – in a further twist – currently occupied by United Nation troops and members of an interim government put in place after President Jean-Bertrand Aristide was forced into exile in a popular revolt in February this year. Aristide, currently in South Africa, had introduced his own Macoute-style secret police, the Chimeras, after being democratically elected in 2001. “There are 10,000 of them still out there with guns,” said one local insider we met on the Oloffson’s veranda – 40 years after Greene, still the place to find out what’s going on in Haiti.

Floods or no floods, these were not exactly tourist-friendly days in Haiti (and it hadn’t exactly had many of them in the first place). The “lost world” of “naked girls in the pool” in the 1940s and early 1950s, so lamented by Mr Brown, was well and truly lost, with few who could even remember it.

But before travelling, I’d contacted a local travel agency and spoken to Jacqui La Brom, one of the only English-language guides in the country, a Bristolian who originally came to Haiti as a missionary in the 1970s, and she had convinced me that conditions had settled since the February coup: “It’s fine. People are eating out at restaurants again in the evening. If you sick to the mainstream sights, steer clear of the slums, and don’t go out at night alone, it’ll be fine. Stuff the Foreign Office advice (which was against ‘non-essential travel’), they always overdo it – I’m always writing to tell them so.”

Jacqui met us at the bus station, after we’d crossed the border after a six-hour drive from Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic. “Oh it was going to be a wonderful year,” she sighed. “Everything was starting to go so well. It was the 200th anniversary (Haiti celebrated its bicentenery on January 1) and we had all these bookings lined up. Beautiful, it was all going beautifully – then: boom! And now there’s Goinaves. Oh, it’s dreadful!”

Jacqui, who reminded me of a purposeful-but-slightly-eccentric leading character in an Anne Tyler novel (she plays bridge every Tuesday evening, is a former president of the International Women’s Association, and her favourite pink T-shirt bears the logo “Supergirl”), kept on talking… and talking. She surely, Doug and I agreed after a couple of days, merits some kind of international medal for oratory skills, if not just for long breathes.

“There’ll be 6,000 or so troops out here by the end of the year. But they’re not doing anything. They’ve spent a fortune on vehicles – which is very nice for all the rich people here who sell Nissans. But you don’t often see them on the streets. They’re supposed to be keeping the peace, but people have been shot in front of them and they’ve done nothing. (She hadn’t mentioned this when telling me about the travel conditions).”

As she says this, a white UN four-wheel drive passes by. “See, that’s just from the headquarters round the corner – whenever they do roadblocks, it’s always close to the headquarters, so they can get back easily.”

On the floods: “There’s a big problem across the country of people building on land in ravines. They can’t afford anywhere else. They are so poor. But nobody’s going to chuck them out of a riverbed.”

So what does a tourist – the only tourists – do in Haiti? And does this change when there are devastasting floods (which were localised and had not affected other parts of the country) and continuing political rumblings (Aristide supporters began demonstrating, literally the day after we departed – forcing the UN into more visible action in Port-au-Prince)? I’d been attracted by the Oloffson, with its ghosts of The Comedians; the mystique created by voodoo, which is said to be practiced by as much as 90 per cent of the population; the country’s remarkable and troubled history; and by the sheer curiosity of visiting such a little-visited place.

We began with the history, via a brief lecture. “There are nine words I don’t want you to mention,” said Jacqui, in the Place des Heros de l’Independence, opposite the bright White House-style National Palace. What, Jacqui, we asked. “That ‘Haiti is the poorest nation in the western hemisphere’.” A nice try, and based on her belief that “Haiti gets a bad press”. But some stark stats prove the point: gross national income per capita US$440; life expectancy for men of 49 years and women of 50 years (people in the neighbouring Dom Rep can expect to live 15-20 years longer); half the nation’s wealth owned by French-speaking mulattos, who make up just one per cent of the population, while the Creole-speaking black majority is impoverished; tiny percentages of the land left with forests (deforestation being one of the main blames for the strength of the effect of Hurricane Jeanne).

As several small boys offer to polish my sandals – “Eh blanc!”, looking at my feet, “Eh blanc!” – we saw the statues commemorating the heroes of Haiti’s battle for independence. Toussaint Louverture, who in 1801 declared himself Governor for Life on the island, but was subsequently tricked by Napoleon and jailed in France – his chin jutting defiantly. Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who declared independence on January 1, 1804. Henri Christophe, who helped lead resistence in the north.

This should be a year of great celebration in Haiti – a year of rejoicing for the world’s first black-led republic, the first freed-slave nation. Instead “things haven’t worked out quite like that,” said Jacqui. A dreary, half-built memorial – not open to the public yet, and no one knows when it will – looks more like a practice tower for firemen. Yet Haiti freed its slaves 29 years before the British, and 60 years before the US Civil War.

Doug and I tracked down Issa El Saieh, the Haitian-Syrian who Graham Greene turned into Hamit, the Syrian storeman who provides a room for Mr Brown’s adulterous affair in The Comedians – the name of the book came partly from the “comedy” of the private lives of the charcters who lived during Papa Doc.

It wasn’t difficult. The 85-year-old runs an art gallery on Rue Chile, a few streets from the Oloffson, in a big echoing white mansion with a sweeping view across the capital – past the palace and the cathedral to the slums near the port, where rubbish was burning. We were his only visitors. What did he think about what’s been going on? “Terrible, just terrible: if I was a tourist, I wouldn’t bother coming here. I haven’t sold anything for months, not that I really give a damn.”

In better times, Issa sold Greene a Philippe Auguste for about 50 dollars – a “crazy sum” (as in crazily low on today’s likely valuation) – and became friends: “He was a nice guy, but he could also be a pain in a way. If he didn’t like you, you’d better watch out. He’d bad mouth people.”

Had he any news of Aubelin Jolicoeur, on whom Greene based the character, Petit Pierre, a gadfly gossip-columnist with Papa Doc connections, once known to prop up the bar – and never pay for his rum punches – at the Oloffson. “No, but I bet he’s still not paying for his drinks. He used to run around Port-au-Prince like he ran the country. I’ve known him since we were in our teens.”

Issa’s art is stunning, bright primary colours, – realism mixed with abstract works – but he would not mention prices. “I’ve got one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel,” he told Doug as he showed him one picture, “so I only want to sell if you’re really interested”. When we go, Issa, who has Greene’s quizzical eyes, cried after us: “Make sure you tell tourists to come and see me: I need somebody to lie to!”

Moro Baruk, who runs a small art gallery in his name in Jacmel, a sleepy seaside town with charming-but-dilapidated 19th century colonial houses, where we make a pit-stop before traveling north, was also selling badly. How many tourists had he had this year? “Well, that depends on how you define tourist,” he replied playfully. We agreed that it did not count aid workers taking breaks. “Four,” he said. “Yes, four.”

Haiti’s history comes alive in the north, a few miles from Cap-Haitien – at probably the world’s least visited major attraction: the Citadel. Built by Henri Christophe from 1805-1816, it is a monument to the slave revolution and as breathtaking as the pyramids (go if you don’t believe me). It is the world’s biggest fort, with walls 30ft wide designed to keep out the French – who were expected to come back for a fight (but didn’t).

It is just 60 miles from Gonaives, but was unaffected by Hurricane Jeanne, as was the surrounding area. We are taken to the top by Maurice Etienne, himself the descendent of a slave ship from Benin that made the mistake of calling at Cap-Haitien while Christophe was in charge: he freed it and imprisoned the captain.

“When this was built, everywhere in the Caribbean had slavery. And in North America, South America: nothing but slavery,” said Etienne, who had a bushy black beard and who said he works for three months each year as a taxi driver in New York City (he is divorced from an Amercan woman) to make ends meet. “Christophe said ‘listen guys, build this and be free forever’. They said ‘ok let’s go for it’. You see dying for this building was like being sent straight back to Africa, to the motherland, to freedom. (About 5,000 people did die). And when it was finished it was thought it would be the saviour of the nation.”

We talked about what had happened this year – the politics and the floods. “I feel like dying, really I do. After 200 years we have been reduced to this, reduced to having the UN here. We can’t look after ourselves. It feels like we have been invaded. Invaded by the UN, which everyone just thinks of as the USA. I don’t see what we’re going to do from now – if the truth be told.”

It was a strange, and often moving, experience, being the only tourists in Haiti.

Walking Australia’s Great Ocean Road

Remains of the 12 Apostles

Part of the remains of the 12 Apostles, Victoria (more pictures at end of article)

On a cliff overlooking the expanse of ocean, with waves crashing below on apricot sands and birds of prey wheeling above untouched forest by the coast, Ian, a retired self-storage company owner from Melbourne, is getting philosophical – in an Australian kind of way.

“Mate, let me tell you,” he says, looking out across the waves, “this is a ripper place. Totally ripper, mate.”

He pauses as we listen to a wallaby scurrying close by in the bush. “Some resorts not far from here are packed to buggery in the summer, mate. But not here, mate. Oh, no, things are always totally ripper here.”

It’s hard not to agree. The Great Ocean Walk snakes for 90km (56 miles) along Victoria’s spectacular southwest coast. Last year, Tourism Victoria announced the opening of the track, which is at points little more than a one-person-wide clearing through the bush, bringing a trickle of tourists to this beautiful region.

The path runs parallel, but not within sight of the Great Ocean Road, widely regarded as Australia’s premier drive. This narrow road, built during the Depression to kick-start the economy, twists and turns along the rugged coast, offering fantastic ocean views.

There are camp sites along the path, which ends at the Twelve Apostles, an Australian landmark that used to consist of a dozen solitary rocks standing alone in the ocean; now there are just eight Apostles as four have collapsed. But we are not slumming it. “I just can’t face that s*** any more,” Ian says, summing up the feeling of our seven-strong group. The others are 20 years older than me but amazingly spritely; the walking pace is keen as we cover 15km a day over four days.

No, we’re not messing about with flysheets and pegs, we’re doing it in style – being dropped by bus at our start point each morning and picked up at the end of the day to be taken to a comfortable guesthouse for a nice meal, a glass of shiraz or two, and a discussion of the day’s events.

The walks are the idea of Gavin and Dana Ronan, who gave up jobs in IT and marketing – Dana was head of marketing at Australia’s version of www.lastminute.com – to set up a company called Bothfeet.

I talk to Gavin one evening at the Aire Valley Guest House, which has an almost unbelievably peaceful view from its veranda over a garden of lemon, apple and olive trees on to an open plain with cattle and eucalyptus trees. “Australia is not known for its walks,” he says, clutching a VB beer and looking as if he wouldn’t be out of place in a flashy Melbourne bar. “We want to change that.”

It’s early days yet, with Bothfeet organising just one or two walks a week. On ours, last December, we see kangaroos, kestrels, eagles, giant red ants (described by Ian as the “garbologists of the bush”) and lots of snake marks, but thankfully no snakes.

“They are active at this time of year,” says Andrew, our guide, whose working life has included stints as a semi-professional cricketer in England, the army and a couple of years as a possum catcher. “I’m surprised we haven’t come across any.”

To protect ourselves against bites, we are given thick plastic gaiters to wear around our ankles. Other kit includes a backpack with a water tube attached to the front strap, a fly net to wear over your hat (in places there are an awful lot of flies, though no mosquitoes), and a vacuum flask of hot water.

The latter is for “smokos” – also known as “brew stops”. We’re in no hurry, so smokos are common. During these breaks Andrew regales us with stories of shipwrecks and marauding escaped convicts back in the early 1800s. He tells us about the plants we see along the way and how they are used by Aborigines.

By the end of our four days, our enthusiasm for the scenery has brought the group together. “I love this place,” says Carolyn, who is married to Geoff, a retired bank manager. “It’s just getting out here and feeling the space. You need that sometimes.”

Andrew joins in: “It’s an Australian thing – of being out in the open. I get it in the Northern Territory, when I look across the flat water and the sky is pink and the crocs are growling. When I’m out here, I’m always thinking: ‘Who in their right mind would want to work in an office?’ ” With golden light settling on the Twelve Apostles at the end of our “ripper” and invigorating – but not too demanding – walk, the collective answer of our group is: good question.

Need to know

Getting there: Tom Chesshyre travelled with Tourism Australia and Qantas (0845 7747767, www.qantas.co.uk), which has returns from Heathrow to Melbourne from £641.
Walking the walk: Bothfeet (00 61 3 5334 0688, www.both feet.com.au) offers four-day walks, including full-board accommodation, from £793.
Further information: Tourism Australia (www.australia.com), Great Ocean Walk (www.greatoceanwalk.com.au).

Where to stay

Decent places to stay used to be rare on the Great Ocean Road. Now you’re spoilt for choice:
Chris’s Beacon Point Restaurant and Villas (00 61 3 5237 6411): excellent restaurant with sea views; B&B doubles from£118 a night.
Moonlight Head (00 61 3 523 75208, www.moonlighthead.com) has views of Cape Otway lighthouse; full board from £269pp. Oscars, 41b Gipps Street, Port Fairy (00 61 3 5568 3022, www.oscarswaterfront.com) has B&B doubles from £111 a night.

First published in The Times, November 3 2007

Along the Great Ocean Walk

Along the Great Ocean Walk

Stop-off at a lighthouse

Stop-off at a lighthouse

Great Ocean Walkers

Walkers: Great Ocean Walk

Shady character

Shady character – wearing full walkers’ kit

Vienna: a world where the Third Man lives on

Third Man Museum

Third Man Museum, Vienna (more pictures at the end of the article)

Under a sycamore tree on a corner of a road just south of the Vienna opera house a handful of tourists has gathered by a hole in a pavement with a spiral staircase leading down into darkness.

“This is the real location: the one you see in the movie!” exclaims Gerhard Strassgschwandtner, our guide to the sites from The Third Man, written by Graham Greene, which won the Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival 60 years ago this week.

As a tram creaks towards the golden dome of the Secession building, we descend the damp steps down which Harry Lime, played by Orson Welles, fled the authorities chasing him for operating a watered-down penicillin racket during the postwar years — a time when Vienna was a divided city under the control of the Russians, Americans, British and French.

Greene, who entered the Viennese sewers here during filming in 1948, had been inspired to write the story after hearing about the deaths of children treated with diluted penicillin, much of this told to him by his friend the Times correspondent Peter Smollett.

Strassgschwandtner leads us along passages with filthy puddles to an opening with a murky olive river flowing through a tunnel. We stop at a section in which images of Welles disappearing round a corner, pursued by Joseph Cotten, playing the character Holly Martins, seem to flash up like ghosts.

Greene’s description feels spot-on: “What a strange world unknown to most of us lies under our feet: we live above a cavernous land of waterfalls and rushing rivers, where tides ebb and flow as in the world above.”

This is a real sewer and the smell in places is terrible. Looking down the hellish tunnel in which Lime eventually meets his maker, Strassgschwandtner tells us that many locals do not like the film because they do not want to be reminded of the poverty and destruction in the city after the war.

For Strassgschwandtner, however, who is in his early fifties and owns and runs the Third Man Museum, the film opened up a period of his country’s history that he had not been taught properly at school. He believes that too many Austrians consider the Second World War to be a German war that was nothing to do with them. When he was growing up he was not even taught the history of the war at high school.

The Third Man helped him to understand Austria’s involvement and what happened to Vienna in the aftermath: that it was controlled by foreign powers. The star of the film is not Welles, he says: “It is Vienna.”

Out in the open again, thankfully, we visit Max Joseph Platz, where Lime faked his death to try to fool the authorities. Again, there is the spooky sensation of seeing characters from the film: it was here that a young boy wearing a cap looks suspiciously at Martins, an outsider, and draws a mob’s attention to him.

They chase him across the cobbles, past the distinctive entrance of a building with four columns in the shape of maidens, around a corner and out of the square.

We visit the spot where Martins first lays eyes on Lime: a key moment, when Welles, with his impassive moon-like face, first appears on screen, on a street not far from Sigmund Freud Park. We visit Am Hof square, where Lime disappears as though into thin air behind an advertising hoarding that conceals a doorway entrance to the sewers.

And then we take in the Third Man Museum, which is close to Naschmarkt, a seedy centre of black market trade and prostitution when Greene visited but now bustling with trendy caf?s and smart fruit and veg stalls. The museum opened three years ago and it contains an Aladdin’s cave of film paraphernalia, with displays that include the original Austrian zither used to play Anton Karas’s catchy, hypnotic soundtrack, first editions of the novella, and black-and-white shots of the cast.

There is also a two-minute clip using an old-fashioned cinema reel, although the whole film is also shown three times a week, mainly for tourists, at a full-screen cinema in the Old Town — a testament to its enduring appeal.

Greene stayed at Hotel Sacher, where British military staff lived and where Welles and the rest of the crew also put themselves up in 1948. The hotel is repeatedly mentioned in the novella, and it is where Martins stays after bluffing his way to a free room by pretending to be a famous author when he arrives in Vienna at the beginning of the film.

It’s an ornate jewellery box of a place, with gilded antique furniture, plush red velvet furnishings, oriental vases, front doormen in top hats and tails, and a guest list that includes all sorts of film stars (Sharon Stone and Emma Thompson recently), politicians (Gerhard Schr?der, the former German Chancellor, staying on our visit) and dignitaries (the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh came in 1969).

There’s a Third Man suite in the room in which Greene is believed to have slept, filled with stills from the film and a shot of Welles with a handwritten note from him praising the hotel’s bar for serving “the best bloody mary in the world”. Downstairs, we make our way to the small, cosy Blue Bar, where the author and Welles enjoyed many a drink.

An American who might pass for a senator is asked by a waiter what gin he would like in his G&T. We sit in a corner and watch the waiters glide by serving cocktails, just as they must have done in the 1940s.

Afterwards, as a final homage, we take the subway to Prater Park for a trip on its iconic Ferris wheel. The old-fashioned red compartments in which Greene took a ride during his research (when this was part of the city’s Russian sector) look exactly as they did in the film’s most famous scene, when Lime pontificates on the rights and wrongs of his penicillin racket, pointing at the “dots” of people in the funfair far below:

“Would you really feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving — for ever? If I said you could have £20,000 for every dot that stops, would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money — without hesitation?” It may be 60 years later, but the ghosts of Greene live on in Vienna.

Need to know

Getting there Kirker Holidays (020-7593 2283, www.kirkerholidays.com) offers a three-night B&B break staying at the five-star Hotel Sacher from £970pp, including return scheduled flights and private car transfers. Cheaper hotel options are available through the Austrian National Tourist Office (0845 1011818, www.austria.info). EasyJet (www.easyjet.com) has returns from Stansted to Vienna from £40.

Graham Greene’s Vienna “In the Footsteps of the Third Man” tours (www.viennawalks.com) are run every Monday and Friday at 4pm, meeting at the U4 Station Stadtpark metro station at the Johannesgasse exit. They last 2hr 30min and cost £14.50.

The Third Man Museum (www.3mpc.net), 25 Pressgasse, is open 2-6pm on Saturdays. Entrance £6.

The Third Man is shown in English at the Burg Kino cinema (www.burgkino.at), 19 Opernring, at 10.55pm on Fridays, 2.15pm on Sundays and 5.40pm on Tuesdays — but check beforehand as times sometimes alter slightly.

More journeys in Greeneland

The Comedians The Oloffson, Port-au-Prince, Haiti The basis of the Hotel Trianon in Greene’s 1966 novel The Comedians, set during the rule of François “Papa Doc” Duvalier. The main character is the hotel’s owner, who discovers a body in the pool: “My first thoughts were selfish ones: you cannot be blamed if a man kills himself in your swimming pool.”

Doubles from £53; http://hoteloloffson.com Our Man in Havana The Nacional, Havana, Cuba When Mr Wormwold, the vacuum salesman hero of Our Man in Havana, is told that he is about to be poisoned at a meal at the Nacional, other guests overhear the warning:

“One of them, an American, said, ‘Is the food that bad?’ and everyone laughed.” Doubles from £123; www.hotelnacionaldecuba.com The Quiet American The Majestic and the Continental, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam The Majestic and the Continental feature in The Quiet American, first published in 1955.

Thomas Fowler, the protagonist, sits at the Continental’s bar: “It was the early evening . . . the dice rattled on the tables where the French were playing Quatre-Vingt-et-Un, and the girls in white silk trousers bicycled home down the rue Catinat.”

Doubles from £97 at the Majestic (www.majestic saigon.com) and from £40 at the Continental (www.continental-saigon.com)

First published in The Times, September 5 2009

Inside the Third Man Museum

Inside the Third Man Museum

Old film poster

Old film poster

View from Hotel Sacher

View from Hotel Sacher

Inside Hotel Sacher

Inside Hotel Sacher

Over ‘ere son, on my head (mind that goat)

Ghana Football

EVEN the goats are better than us. We — a group of volunteers in Ghana to help coach youngsters in football — are playing a crack team of locals, most in their mid-20s, on a bumpy pitch in a small village in the hills north of Accra, Ghana’s capital.

It’s a special match organised to mark the end of a week in which we had been training under-17-year-olds in nearby villages. “It’s the whites versus the blacks!” screams the DJ, his enormous sound system pumping out “hi-life” hits (West African music that mixes reggae with soul). About 800 people have turned up to watch the match and every vantage point is filled — there are even people perched in the mango trees by the sidelines.

The sun is scorching and we are 3-1 down — I’ve been subbed off after twisting an ankle in a midfield pothole. The pitch is terrible, but one of the best for miles around — most don’t even have grass.

And the goat is about to dazzle our defence. With consummate ease, one of the locals sprints past our centrebacks, but plays the ball too far ahead of himself. It looks like it’s running for a goal kick, but a small group of goats, munching the grass, is in the way.

The leader, a grey scraggly animal, sees the ball and instinctively butts it, away from the goalkeeper and straight into the path of the striker, who brilliantly thumps a goal. 4-1, and no offside whistle for the goat — “Goooalll!” cries the DJ, as the crowd goes wild.

The moment perfectly encapsulates African football and our experiences of football coaching in Ghana: fantastic talent, awful facilities . . . and a lot of fun.

I’ve joined a group of 18 volunteers, ranging in age from 19 to 35, to spend a fortnight helping out with training drills in and around Accra. Most of the volunteers are gap year students either about to go to university or just finished, plus a couple of career breakers. The other volunteers are here for five weeks, after which some will go backpacking northwards through Ghana into Burkina Faso and then on to Timbuktu in Mali.

They’re part of the Tom Vernon Football Academy, based in Accra and run by Tom, an enthusiatic and self-assured 25-year-old from High Wycombe who formed the academy — which looks after a group of 20 or so of Ghana’s best under-17 players — four years ago.

Tom came to Ghana despondent, after quitting a coaching science degree at John Moores University in Liverpool — “too much theory, not enough practice” — and going for a holiday, staying with a family friend who ran a furniture business in Accra.

A former Sunday league football player in the UK, Tom began teaching English at a local school and soon found himself running football games. A chance meeting in a bar with one of Ghana’s premiership football club owners led to a coaching job, where he thrived — and a year later he was in charge of Hearts of Oak, the title holders and the country’s biggest team.

While there, he had an idea. “There was so much amazing young footballing talent around, but people didn’t have the best tactical understanding of the game,” he says, explaining that rough pitches mean that almost all players in Ghana have “brilliant ball control, wonderful skills”.

So he started the academy, which is about to release its first intake, some of whom are expected to sign for clubs in France; 15 per cent of their signing fees will go to improving the academy’s facilities.

“Our philosophy is to give these boys the chance to fulfil their potential,” he says, as we watch them training on their home “pitch”, a dusty lot beneath crackling electricity pylons. “So many people in Africa, in every walk of life, don’t fulfil their potential.”

Most come from very poor backgrounds — football is their chance to make a living far in excess of farming or working for a company in Accra (where the average annual salary is £400). Like basketball is to inner-city kids in the States, football is seen as a way out of financial hardship.

After setting out plastic cones for crossing practice, Tom — not afraid to make his feelings known — is in full voice: “Too slow! Come on, tackle him! Lazy, lazy, lazy! Why are you just watching him: is he your boyfriend?!” The players are excellent — scooting about, sending whistling shots goalwards, flicking the ball expertly. “Imagine Sol Campbell being able to do that,” says Tom after one player controls the ball perfectly, before whipping in a cross (perhaps being a bit unfair to England’s star central defender).

During a break, I talk to Isaac “Telly” Bawa Shaze, 15, undoubtedly the academy’s star. “My plan is to play for a big club — Manchester United or AC Milan, maybe Valencia,” he says nonchalantly, adding that his favourite player is Paul Scholes. “The academy is great: we get free accommodation, free food, free school and free sports equipment.”

Telly’s “problem” is his height. He’s about 5ft 1in and even though Tom tells him it’s not the answer, he spends 20 minutes a day hanging from a bough of a tree in the courtyard of the academy’s HQ — to stretch himself.

The academy is funded by volunteers, who contribute £100 each. Everyone seems to be having the time of his life. Although there are no female football coaches, there are a dozen women on volunteer trips based at the academy who are either coaching tennis, teaching at arts and crafts centres or working as physios.

I go with Joe Mulberry, 22, from Barnstaple in Devon, and Mark Griffith, 21, from Cheltenham, to organise a coaching session for Mandela FC’s under-17 team, based at Labadi Beach, a deprived neighbourhood with open sewers, corrugated iron housing and a view of the fierce breaking waves across the Bay of Guinea. Rip currents make swimming extremely dangerous, and limit Ghana’s sun-and-sand tourist potential.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever done — I’ve loved it,” says Joe, who has extended his stay at the academy from five weeks to three months. “We recently held a trial for new kids to join the academy. We expected a couple of hundred people, but about 2,000 turned up. It was amazing. People were in tears when they weren’t selected for the next stage of trials. It was unbelievable.”

Mark, who joined the academy on completing his degree, adds: “It’s the most rewarding thing I’ve done, without a doubt. It’s definitely changed me — made me more rounded. At least I think so.”

It’s a win-win situation. The kids love to play football and the volunteers have a great time, picking up “skills” such as responsibility and teamwork along the way.

They also get to experience “the real Africa” that most visitors to the likes of South Africa or Kenya don’t see — isolated villages where babies scream with fright at their first sight of a “whitey” (mothers rushed over to us, amused to watch their children’s reactions); bustling markets where tourists are a novelty, not people to rip off; national parks full of elephants (and a just a few tourists); historical sights such as the old slave forts where history is told straight, with no tourist-board gloss.

And then there’s the real thrill: the chance of discovering the next Marcel Desailly (who plays for Chelsea), Tony Yeboah (formerly of Leeds United), Abedi Pele (three times African player of the year, 1991-1993), or Freddy Adu (just 14 years old and already signed up for Washington DC United, with Manchester United interested) — all born in Ghana, one of the safest countries in Africa.

“One day maybe,” says Tom, watching Telly hanging from the bough of his mango tree and dreaming of those extra inches. “Who knows . . . one day maybe . . . we’ll just have to wait and see.”

NEED TO KNOW

Getting there: Sportsventurer (0845 1211996, www.sportsventurer.com) offers five-week coaching placements from £1,280; two-week “taster” trips are £495. All meals and accommodation (in a dormitory) included, but not flights. Three-week overland adventures to Timbuktu are an additional £500. Three-star hotel accommodation is about £20 a night extra. Sportsventurer also offers football placements in Trinidad and Tobago, rugby coaching trips in Tonga and Fiji, and cricket in Trinidad and Tobago. Madventurer offers community work in Ghana villages.

Flights: British Airways (0870 8509850, www.ba.com) has flights to Accra from £550.

Red tape: Visas for Ghana are £20 from the Ghana High Commission (020-7201 5900, www.ghana-com.co.uk).

Medical requirements: Yellow fever vaccinations are required; anti-malarial pills also needed. See www.masta.org.

Reading: Ghana (Bradt, £12.95); A Good Man in Africa by William Boyd, who was born in Accra (Penguin, £7.99); A Passage to Africa by George Alagiah (Little Brown, £7.99).

Travel advice: Foreign Office (0870 6060290, www.fco.gov.uk).

Playing away

Disneyland Resort Paris (0870 5030303, www.disneylandparis.com) has daily football training sessions for boys and girls aged 7-14 with coaches from Manchester United. Sessions cost £17 and must be booked.

First Choice (0870 8503929, www.firstchoice.co.uk) offers Holiday Soccer School trips for 5-16-year-olds in Lanzarote, the Costa del Sol, Corfu, the Algarve, Majorca and Turkey — two-day courses are £29, four days from £59.

Thomson Holidays (0870 5502555, www.thomson.co.uk) has Spurs Football Coaching packages for 5-12-year-olds in July and August in the Balearics and the Canary Islands from £165 for a week.

Worldwide Soccer Academy (020-8500 2665, www.worldwidesocceracademy.com) offers five days’ coaching by Chelsea football academy coaches at La Quinta resort in Marbella, Spain, for £98 in the summer; for 10-12-year-olds.

First published in The Times, June 12 2004

Faeroe Isles: ‘Silence. Isolation. It’s breathtaking’

Puffins on Mykines

Puffins on Mykines (more pictures at the end of the article)

It’s pouring down, absolutely streaming. Wind lashes across the cliffs above the treacherous Atlantic Ocean. And I’m on my summer holiday. But I’m loving it because all around us, wings flapping madly a few feet above our heads, there they are: squadrons of shiny black puffins.

We are in the centre of a puffin colony on the edge of the island of Mykines (pronounced Mitchiness) in the Faeroe Isles, reached by a 45-minute ferry that departs twice a day from Vagar, another island. There are 18 main islands in the Faeroes, which are a semi-autonomous part of Denmark and lie 160 miles north of the Outer Hebrides, the closest landmass, and halfway between Shetland and Iceland.

It is a magical spot. The puffins sit with their quizzical cartoon-like faces next to holes in the emerald slope (the grass is particularly green as the puffins fertilise the land). They don’t mind human beings at all: often we walk within a few feet of the birds. From time to time they plunge off the hillside, flapping furiously as though their wings are not big enough to maintain their body weight.

This has a strange effect: they look almost like mechanical wind-up toys as they fly. Then they flutter back, missions accomplished with beaks full of tiny fish to feed their young, hidden away in nests in the holes. On their return journeys they must avoid the attentions of huge speckled-brown great skuas: piratical gulls that feed by bullying the puffins into dropping their fish and soar above us as though they own the sky.

Near by, between the puffin nests, Arctic terns are also looking after their young. These wispy grey-white birds with twin tails swoop up and down looking as though they are dancing: they are known to attack tourists who venture too close. Beyond, there are vast cliffs (the Faeroes has some of the highest sea cliffs in the world) dropping more than 300m into the sea and stained white with droppings from the hundreds of gannets and kittiwakes that have nested on ledges. Gulls, gannets, kittiwakes, Arctic terns, shags and puffins fill the sky like confetti.

The puffins, though, are the undoubted stars of the Faeroe Isles, which can be reached in just under two hours from Stansted. The airport you fly into has a short sloping runway, too short for the likes of Ryanair and easyJet. This means that the only way to reach the islands from the UK is on Atlantic Airways’ twice-weekly flights.

The result is one of the quietest places in Europe (population 48,000), almost secretive in its isolation and general lack of fanfare, although the tour operator Sunvil Holidays has just begun offering short breaks in the hope of bringing the islands to the long-weekend-break brigade. “Most British people don’t know we exist, but we are trying to change this,” says Solfrid i Kroki, who works for the Faeroe Isles tourist board. “The few who have heard of us tend to only know about the football team [which is famous for its heavy defeats].”

Kroki tells me this as we walk down the puffin slope on Mykines to a bridge hanging across a gorge. The scenery just about everywhere in the Faeroes is dramatic — the landscape consists of mountains, glacial valleys and huge cliffs with giant waterfalls.

But here, on the western tip of Mykines, it is particularly breathtaking. We pass along a narrow ridge that is shrouded in cloud and feels like the edge of the world, and go carefully down a winding path with a handrail (vertigo sufferers sometimes turn back at this point, although it is completely safe). Fields full of bedraggled black and white sheep lead to an automated lighthouse by an enormous cliff. This overlooks two vast sea stacks that are covered in gannets. It is a spectacular sight.

We have been led here by Karsten Larsen, a guide who is one of 12 people who live on the island – it is too dangerous to attempt on your own, especially when it is rainy. He tells us how locals go bird hunting by climbing to the top of the stacks and abseiling down with clubs to strike youngsters, which are collected in boats below.

Gannet is considered a delicacy among the Faeroese, as is puffin, although hunting is limited under the law and care is taken not to wipe out populations. It is an incredibly risky pursuit that has claimed many lives: there’s a memorial to bird hunters who have died over the years near the tiny village where the ferry arrives. Gannet, Larsen says, is “very tasty, but expensive; it is surrounded in 2-3cm of fat — some people boil it but it is better fried”.

Larsen is a fount of knowledge on Mykines, explaining that the island is particularly good for rearing sheep because of the clumps of puffin-fertilised grass. During the Second World War, we learn, the British had a base in the Faeroes, with an outpost at the lighthouse (Britain occupied the islands when Denmark fell to Germany and the territory suddenly took on strategic importance in the North Atlantic). He stops near the lighthouse and points towards the south. “That way is Antarctica. There is nothing in between!” he says with a sudden flourish.

The summer, when it is light past midnight and the birds are about, is the time to go to the Faeroes — which could have been part of Britain had Henry VIII accepted an offer from a cash-strapped Danish king. The largest concentration of the population, about 19,000 people, lives in the capital, Torshavn. This has a harbour full of wooden fishing boats (fishing is the big local industry) and an old town section dating mainly from the 19th century and consisting of a series of lovely wooden houses painted in rusty reds, yellows and greens — each with grass roofs.

These apparently help with insulation and also keep out the pitter patter of rain: a serious consideration in a place where it buckets down so much, although the weather can be bright and warm, too, in the summer. The seat of government looks like a schoolhouse and is opposite the tourist office. Inside the latter you can buy all sorts of things decorated in puffins (key rings, mugs, tea towels) and it is, remarkably, the only souvenir shop in the capital: it’s still very early days for tourism in the Faeroes.

Torshavn has a handful of cosy bars and restaurants and a fine art gallery, but in Gjogv, where I stay at a B&B with a grass roof, there is only a single caf?. The feeling of isolation is terrific. I go for peaceful walks along the sea cliffs (one of which is named Satan) and marvel at the sheer scale of the scenery: the vast plummeting rock faces, the huge glacial valleys. Gulls sail above and the sun breaks through the clouds above Kalsoy island. The Faeroes may be best known for being mentioned in the BBC Shipping Forecast — and they certainly get a lot of weather — but they make a great place to escape the rest of Europe … and the tourist crowds.

Need to know

Getting there Sunvil Discovery (020-8758 4722, sunvil.co.uk) offers a four-night stay in the Faeroes from £966pp. The price includes direct return flights from London Stansted to Vagar, two nights’ B&B at the Gjaargardur Guesthouse in Gjogv, two nights’ B&B at the three-star Hotel Torshavn, and car hire.

Further information Faroeislands.com. Also read Faroe Islands by James Proctor (Bradt, £15.99).

Local currency The Faeroese krona is tied to the Danish krone. The islands can be expensive: a small glass of wine at a bar costs about £5 and a sandwich about £6.

Must do Visit the Faeroe Islands Art Museum in Torshavn and the Nordic House theatre (www.nlh.fo).

When to go May to September for the best weather and for seeing the most birdlife.

First published in The Times, March 27 2010

Cafe in Gjogv

Cafe in Gjogv

Walk along the coast from Gjogv

Walk along the coast from Gjogv

Typical grass-roofed houses

Typical grass-roofed houses

Puffin on Mykines

Puffin on Mykines

Bridge on Mykines

Bridge on Mykines

Gulls on Mykines

Gulls on Mykines

View from Mykines

View from Mykines

Torshavn Houses

Torshavn

Torshavn

Torshavn

On the long road, from Denver to San Francisco

Jack Kerouac Alley

Lights flashed. The cop car made a u-turn. I looked in the mirror as the siren sounded, then checked our speed: too fast. One day into our trip across the United States driving from Denver to San Francisco, following the highways taken in Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road, and we were already in trouble with the law (just like the characters in the book).

“Do ya’ll realise what it’da be like to hit an elk in this thing?” drawled the steely-eyed officer, eyeing our Toyota sceptically, as he strolled — slowly — to the driver’s window. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise we’d picked up speed. It was just because we were going down hill,” I replied. I really hadn’t: the speed limit was 40mph, and seemed so slow for such a good road.

“Do you realise what would happen if you hit an elk?” the officer continued, raising his voice and looking very angry, all of a sudden. I replied that it would probably be an extremely dangerous collision, and apologised profusely. He eyed me, looking steely again, his face bright red. Then he walked away and, remarkably, gave us a “courtesy warning” and let us off a $250 fine. For the rest of our 2,000 mile trip, we stuck religiously to the limit.

It was quite an adventure. My girlfriend and I had begun in Denver the day before, where we had flown into the “Mile High City” and picked up our car from the airport. We were heading for the Pacific Ocean, taking in five states along the way: Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada and California on a two-week trip we would never forget.

In Denver, we had checked out the laid-back shops and the cool downtown bars — some of which still had a Beat Generation vibe. We had also seen the strikingly bright Native American art at the brilliant Denver Art Museum, one of the best collections in America. Then we’d driven via the even more relaxed city of Boulder — where we picked up an ice-box from a mall (essential for keeping things cool on a long drive) — and headed along dramatically twisty roads into the Rockies to stay at the old gold mining town of Central City.

A night in a casino hotel amid the old clapboard houses — spinning a few slot machines and being surprised to end $10 up — was followed by our brush with the law. And then we were on, northwards, along the I25 in the direction of Wyoming.

It was a long straight road. I stuck on the cruise control and we watched the scenery change from jagged elk-filled mountains, to a mall-land of Walmarts, to an emerald expanse of fields, to a series of bright fireworks outlets, which seemed to mark the boundary into Wyoming. They did. And soon we were moving along the I80, which led us the rest of the way to San Francisco, the Beat poets’ favourite hangout.

Wyoming was like nowhere we had ever been. The state is enormous: 97,800 square miles, compared to Britain’s 88,700, but with a population of about half a million. The prairies spread out seemingly forever, rolling in honeysuckle glory, with snow-capped mountains on the horizon. Hail beat down making the road almost invisible. Great trucks roared by. The hail disappeared, almost as quickly as it came. And then performed the same trick a few more times.

We crossed the Continental Divide — the hydrological dividing point of America between the Pacific and Atlantic oceans — and stopped in the tiny town of Arlington, where a teenager was shooting gophers with a rifle in a field. The sound of bullets whistled across empty land.

The cops seemed to take interest in outsiders (us) as we drove into Saratoga: we were followed into town by a cruiser, which turned away after a while, as we were 5mph under the limit and nervously creeping along. Saratoga was a small farmers’ town with a couple of rows of shops selling cowboy boots for cowboys, not tourists. Pick-up trucks were the vehicles of choice. The grocery shop had enormous deer and buffalo heads mounted on the walls.

We checked into Saratoga Resort, a motel with natural hot springs in a courtyard at the back. Each hot-tub had a slightly different temperature: from hot to very hot to absolutely baking hot. The smell of sulphur rose into the sky, as stars appeared above. We crunched our way back to our warm, shoebox room across remnants of snow. We were travelling in late April and it was still freezing.

The next day the miles clicked by, along Rattlesnake Road, and back on to the I80. On and on we went through cowboy country to the Utah border. The most we drove in any day was about 400 miles; about six or seven hours, quite manageable. The scenery changed at the border, becoming hillier, with the highway heading down through wide gorges until we saw the pancake-like spread of Salt Lake City.

This has to be America’s cleanest city. We stayed at a downtown hotel within strolling distance of the temple to the Latter Day Saints. Along pavements that might have been scrubbed with a toothbrush they were so spotless, we visited the grand temple, where friendly Mormons greeted us on paths amid brightly blooming flowerbeds. “All is well with the world and God is smiling on you,” said one sister, with a beatific smile.

More miles and more highway led to the mesmerisingly bright Salt Lake Flats — progressing through the haze as though we were driving across the moon. Past $10 lapdance joints and towns with penitentiaries, where signs warned us not to pick up hitchhikers in case they were escaped convicts, we reached the little-visited Elko. This was a truckstop of a place with a run of fast-food joints and casinos, one of which we were staying at. We drank Buds at the bar amid truckers and cowboys wearing caps saying “Support gun rights: without them you don’t have any”. The machines pinged and played tinny electronic tunes. We won another $10 on the slots.

A pitstop in Reno (effectively a smaller version of Las Vegas) was followed by two nights on the southern, Californian tip of Lake Reno. What a glorious place: the Alpine water so placid and smooth, like bathwater but stretching forever, with snow-capped peaks all about. This was the perfect hideaway for a breather on a long road trip. We took a boat trip on the MS Dixie, and went for walks by the shore.

The drive into San Francisco was not the longest one on the trip. We dropped downwards from the mountains and soon found ourselves on the busiest highways yet. Drivers went faster. They jumped lanes erratically. The signs were confusing. But we made it across the long-sweeping Bay Bridge in one piece and arrived in Frisco.

We had arrived. After a struggle with a one-way system from hell, and a close call with a tram, we found our hotel near North Beach, one of Kerouac’s beloved old haunts. Then we took one last drive, to the edge of the Pacific Ocean. From Lincoln Park, with the wind sweeping across the choppy waves, we stood and looked out towards the delicate red outline of Golden Gate Bridge. What a drive — 2,000 miles on the road, with a lot of weaving, and only a little trouble with cops along the way.

Need to know

Getting there: Bon Voyage (0800 3160194, bon-voyage.co.uk) has a 14-night fly-drive with two nights at Hotel Monaco, in Denver, two nights at Century Casino in Central City, one night at Saratoga Resort, two nights at Salt Lake City’s Hotel Monaco, one night at Red Lion Hotel in Elko, one night at Silver Legacy in Reno, two nights at Aston Lakeland in Lake Tahoe, and three nights at San Francisco’s Diva Hotel from £1,995pp (£2,145pp in a convertible). United Airlines (0845 8444777, unitedairlines.co.uk) has flights to Denver and from San Francisco from £639.

Getting about: Rhino car hire (rhinocarhire.com) has 13 days’ car hire from £524; Denver pick-up and San Francisco drop-off.

Further reading: On the Road by Jack Kerouac (Penguin Classics, £8.99)

Chasing the American dream

In On the Road, Jack Kerouac’s 1957 novel about the madcap exploits of hipsters chasing their dreams across America’s highways, Sal Paradise — the main character — has a thing about Denver.

“Denver, Denver, how would I ever get to Denver?” he wails as he waits for a ride in the Great Plains. Eventually, after squeezing into pick-ups with hobos, he lucks out with a journey in a brand-new car, zooming onwards with “the wickedest grin of joy in the world”, looking forward to the city’s Beat Generation jazz clubs.

The book, soon to be released as a film starring Sam Riley and Kristen Scott, and directed by Walter Salles, is the perfect inspiration for any US road trip. Clasping a dog-eared copy, we visited Larimer Street in Denver, teeming with “downtown hipsters and hustlers … old bums and beat cowboys”, when Kerouac visited. It was this vibe that attracted him and his friend Neal Cassady another writer — Sal Paradise in the novel, and Dean Moriarty, Paradise’s sidekick. Urban renewal which began in the 1960s means Denver is very different now. But My Brother’s Bar, a poky place with $4 beers — where Kerouac drank — can’t have changed much. In Central City in the Rockies, Paradise describes going to the “beautiful little opera house built in the midst of shacks on the steep slope” of the old town. The elegant opera house is still there, with a piece of graffiti saying “Jack was here”.

At the Wyoming-Utah border, we did not see “God in the sky in the form of huge sunbathing clouds above the desert”, but we enjoyed Salt Lake City, where Moriarty “was actually born on the road, when his parents were passing through … in a jalopy on their way to Los Angeles”.

We rolled westwards, “balling the jack”, understanding the mindset of the book’s characters as we reached California: “Dean was happy again. All he needed was a wheel in his hand and four on the road”. And by the time we got to “Frisco”, as Moriarty said, we couldn’t go any further because “there ain’t no more land!”

We visited the City Lights bookshop frequented by Kerouac, Cassady, Allen Ginsberg and other Beat writers. It’s even run by a Beat poet, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, now in his nineties. On the evening we arrived, the lines written on the sidewalk felt just right: “The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great that I thought I was in a dream.”

First published in The Times, August 11 2012

Larmier Street, Denver

At the beginning of the trip on Larmier Street, Denver

Larmier Street

Larmier Street

Opera House in Central City

Opera House in Central City, Colorado

Central City Colorado

Central City, Colorado

Interstate 80

On Interstate 80 through Wyoming

Passing a train in Wyoming

Passing a train in Wyoming – the kind Kerouac might have ridden on

Great Salt Lake, Utah

On the edge of the Great Salt Lake, Utah

On the road through Utah

On the road through Utah

Elko, Nevada

Elko, Nevada

Dreams of grander

“Dreams of grander” – homeless man in San Francisco

City Lights Bookshop in San Francisco

City Lights Bookshop in San Francisco

The Beat Museum San Francisco

The Beat Museum, San Francisco

Cedar Key, Florida — 80 minutes and a world away from Disney

The Island Hotel Cedar Key

The Island Hotel, Cedar Key

On the way to the bridge to Cedar Key, I swerved to avoid a dead racoon. I was on a remote stretch of Route 24 with tall, spectral trees hanging with Spanish moss lining the road. Occasionally a pick-up truck with a gun-rack would pass in the opposite direction; the driver almost invariably bearded with a baseball cap, sometimes wearing camouflage hunting gear (reminding me of the film Deliverance).

Soft gold afternoon light filtered through the treetops. I came to a settlement with a clapboard Baptist church, a gun-shop ….. and not much else. Then the scenery opened out to the sea and soon a staccato sign by Cedar Key’s bridge announced: “When Flooded. Turn Around. Don’t Drown.”

Just two hours north of Orlando’s bustling theme parks and crowded souvenir shops, I had come to a remote part of the northwest coast of the Sunshine State, and it felt a million miles from Mickey Mouse.

Fortunately there were no signs of floods, so I pushed onwards, crossing a series of causeways linking small islands. These led to Cedar Key proper, and a little grid of streets of simple wooden houses with porches (and a fair few Stars and Stripes). A pelican swooped above, heading towards the rickety docks on stilts. I parked by a sloping whitewashed building with oyster shell and limestone walls and a two-tier wooden veranda on a quiet street near a run of little art galleries. I had reached my destination, the Island Hotel — one of the oldest places to stay in Florida, dating from 1859, and a far cry from all the Holiday Inns down south on Orlando’s International Drive.

Cedar Key is a sleepy spot on Florida’s Nature Coast, overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. It was lucky to miss out completely on the pollution caused by the Deepwater Horizon oil spill of 2010 (which damaged the coast about 200 miles away). Its cluster of islands is home to about 700 people including many artists, who have adopted the hideaway and created a bohemian community that mixes with the Deep South roots of the north of Florida to create a laid-back ambience that comes as a refreshing alternative to the hyped-up world of Florida’s mass-market tourism.

There are a handful of cute B&Bs but the Island Hotel is the best place to stay, with its scuffed wood floors, old-fashioned restaurant with ceiling fans, grand piano in the lobby, fish-shaped lamps and marvellous mural of King Neptune in the bar (which has a bullet hole from wilder days). The ten bedrooms come with creaky floors and slatted windows; some overlooking the big front balcony’s rocking chairs. It’s rumoured that it was once a whorehouse, and President Grover Cleveland is believed to have stayed in the 1890s, when Cedar Key was in its heyday as a port for ships to and from Havana. Another famous visitor was the Scottish-born naturalist John Muir, who completed his 1,000-mile walk from Kentucky to the island in 1867.

“Cedar Key is for artists and romantics,” said Stanley Bair, who runs the hotel with her husband Andy. “The artists love the light but there’s the rural culture, too. You still get old-timers called ‘crackers’. They used to herd cattle through the palmettos with small horses and dogs. They’d crack their whip to get the horses going — which is how they got their name. The small wooden houses round here are known as cracker houses.”

The docks are at the centre of Cedar Key, where there’s a stretch of down-to-earth seafood restaurants serving delicious oysters, clams and stone crabs. It’s a working harbour and the clams farmed in nearby waters are famous across the US, and sent in great quantities to restaurants in Boston and Las Vegas. Prawns and scallops are another speciality. It’s a seafood lover’s dream and I can recommend the Pickled Pelican for its fried oysters and grouper, crab cakes and “bourbon shrimp”. The latter are juicy prawns sauteed in a sauce of bourbon, honey, pecan and tomatoes.

Old-time boys and girls in jeans and checked shirts were having a get-together on my visit, drinking Key West Southernmost Wheat beer ($3.75 [£2.40] a bottle) — named after the more famous Floridian “key” at the southern tip of the state. Signs on the wall said “Time flies when you’re having rum” and “Free beer ….. tomorrow.” Meanwhile, at the fun Black Dog bar next door, folk were sampling the 50 different types of microbrewery ales, some of them sitting in quirky old barbershop chairs.

A small local museum in a park filled with cedar trees on a quiet spot on the two square mile island tells the local history including the Seminole Indian past and touches on the days when Captain Kidd visited, as well as the days of the Civil War, when the Confederates were defeated in 1864. A sign outside remembers John Muir’s arrival three years later, of which he wrote:  “The traces of the war are not only apparent on the broken fields, mills and woods ruthlessly slaughtered, but also on the countenances of the people.” He was aged 29 at the time and when he visited, the Island Hotel was a general store selling quinine, alligator and rattlesnake skins.

John Travolta, who lives in Ocala, about 70 miles inland to the east (in a house with enough land for his own airstrip), is a fan of the islands and many wildlife reserves, which cover almost 90,000 acres that are great for hiking and kayaking along the beautiful Suwannee River. After checking out the Shell Mound, just over the bridge to Cedar Key, where there’s a mini mountain of oyster and clam shells built up hundreds of years ago by Native American inhabitants, I went to see Ocala.

I was heading for the Silver Springs theme park, passing yet more pick-up trucks, some with “No-bama” bumper stickers against President Obama, who does not always go down well in the Deep South (I also saw a billboard showing a picture of Obama bending down in front of a sheikh, attacking his petrol price policies). Famed for its crystal clear spring water, the river has attracted tourists since the 1860s and it might be said to be Florida’s original theme park. It’s a gentle, relaxing spot with rides on glass-bottomed boats that give views of little fish and currents of fresh spring water swirling up from below — the perfect antidote to the mad rushing about at so many of the big attractions down in Orlando.

Many films, including Moonraker and Tarzan, have used the area for underwater scenes as the water is so clear. A display describes the movie-making past and which stars have passed by including Gary Cooper, Rock Hudson and Jane Russell, who starred in a flick appropriately called Underwater! Families were relaxing, taking it easy, eating ice creams and going for strolls along the Silver River in the botanical gardens, where you can see more than 130 species of plants.

Ocala is largely residential and it’s known far and wide for the adjacent Ocala National Forest — a massive subtropical forest covering 383,000 acres, established in 1908. Here I met James Buckner, a guide who took me to Juniper Springs. This was a gorgeous, oasis-like place in the forest where you can go for a dip in the wonderfully chilled water.

We stroll along a wooden walkway with claw marks on it from black bears. “They’re never known to attack humans,” reassured James, passing under magnolia trees and past thick fern and saw palmetto. James told me he loved it so much in Juniper Springs, he got married by the river, close to where three guys on kayaks were about to head off when we arrived.

Birds tweeted. Light fell in shards through the forest canopy. No one else was about, yet we were only 80 minutes’ drive north of Orlando. He looked around and sighed: “Disney World is an artificial world. This is the real world.” Anyone who wants a mini-break from Mickey, doesn’t have to travel far.

Need to know

Where to stay
Tom Chesshyre was a guest of the Island Hotel on Cedar Key (00 1 352 543 5111, islandhotel-cedarkey.com), which has B&B doubles from $80 (£50). Mermaid’s Landing (mermaidslanding.com), also on Cedar Key has cute self-catering cottages from $57 (£36).

Where to eat
Try out the superb grouper sandwiches in the bar at the Island Hotel, or the main restaurant serves more formal meals including fresh crabs, clams and scallops. The Pickled Pelican (pickledpelicanonline.com) on the docks is a great place to soak up an (unintimidating) flavour of the Deep South, with sandwiches, salads and chowders galore.

What to see
Cedar Key Museum State Park (floridastateparks.org/cedarkeymuseum), Ocala National Forest (fs.usda.gov/ocala), Nature Coast Trail State Park (visitnaturecoast.com). Entry to Silver Springs in Ocala is free (silversprings.com) but glass-bottom boat rides are $12.99 (£8.30) for adults and $9.99 (£6.35) for children.

Further information
Visit Florida (visitflorida.com), Cedar Key Area Chamber of Commerce (cedarkey.org).

First published in The Times, August 24 2013

My Hire Car John Muir Museum

Colombia: after the druglords, the tourists

View from a San-Rafael lodge

View from a San Rafael guest lodge, about 30 miles east of the Spanish colonial town of Santa Marta, close to the Caribbean coastline

It’s a beautiful sunny morning in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada and I’m talking to a man with a squint who used to grow coca leaves for some of the biggest cocaine drug lords in Colombia.

Not perhaps a typical holiday encounter. As cicadas screech and cockerels echo in the valley, Robinson Pérez Navarro tells me about his old job. “I worked in a laboratory for five years,” he says, pointing towards the jungle as he explains how a team of 20 people hiding in the mountain would add gasoline, caustic soda, chalk, potassium, sulphuric acid and salt to crushed coca leaves to begin making the Class A drug.

“It was just work. We would leave the fields alone for three or four months and then we would harvest the crops. There were 20 of us in the lab. The chemicals we required were delivered by donkey.”

This was often tricky. “Sometimes the police would come and everyone would run.” The donkey would be left with the incriminating evidence, not knowing what all the fuss was about as men raced about with guns.

Many times the army located laboratories. “We would throw up our tools and disappear into the jungle. They didn’t chase. They knew that we were just being used by the drug lords. Back then, this place was very violent and dangerous.”

Learning the ins and outs of cocaine production is all part of the experience at a series of guest lodges in the north of Colombia owned by former coca farmers. In areas that were once out of bounds to holidaymakers, the Government has brought order by fumigating coca crops and driving out guerrillas. The result is that kidnappings and violence are a thing of the past at the main tourist sights.

I’m staying at the San Rafael guest lodges, about 30 miles east of the Spanish colonial town of Santa Marta, close to the Caribbean coastline (a lovely stretch that feels as though it’s the Caribbean’s forgotten coast). The lodges were opened with the help of government and United Nations cash four years ago, but since then about 20 others have sprung up near by.

San Rafael is wonderfully peaceful. My guesthouse (or posada) is at the top of a hill surrounded by banana plants and mango trees. Butterflies flutter around pink flowers by a wooden deck with a small table and a hammock. Inside, two single beds are covered by mosquito nets and a fan. The roof consists of dried plantain plant leaves and the lodge is open on the sides, letting in wafts of air. On a wall by a bare lightbulb, a yellow lizard resides, minding its own business, except for the occasional skilful flick of its tongue to capture a fly.

It makes an intriguing place to stay (about £35 a night) for a couple of days on a tour of Colombia’s Caribbean coast. On my first night, after a fish, plantain and rice meal in the open-air dining area with a dirt floor and a flickering TV showing Spanish soap operas, I meet some of the other lodge owners … feeling almost as though I’ve settled into rural Colombian life.

Zunilda Ramírez, who also used to grow coca leaves, smiles and says: “We used to earn five times more with coca, but our quality of life is much better now. The law used to be on top of us the whole time: helicopters every day. Now we have tranquillity. That does not have a price.”

She and her husband Fabio have five children. “Yes it was an exciting time and there were a lot of parties round here,” says Fabio, who is wearing a T-shirt with a slogan that appropriately enough reads “In the jungle”. He continues: “It was good money. But deep down we knew it was not good for the children.”

The great thing about the lodges is that there is also so much to see near by. With a local guide I visit Santa Marta, a vibrant, slightly ramshackle town with multicoloured houses and tiny lanes dating from Spanish colonial times. This was where the conquistadors first settled, when the explorer Rodrigo de Bastidas arrived in July 1525. His remains are in the elegant white cathedral by the central square.

Afterwards we drive to Quinta de San Pedro Alejandrino, where Simón Bolívar died of tuberculosis in 1830. The revolutionary and military strategist, who had survived several attempts on his life, had planned to visit Europe to get away from his troubles. But he ended up staying on the coast because he was seriously ill.

His final home is now a place of national pilgrimage. Bolívar is regarded as the hero who finally defeated the Spanish in 1819. There is a statue of him, with a wrinkled brow and a stern look, next to a huge saman tree crawling with iguanas.

Nearby, in the old farmhouse, you can see the bed on which he died. “He is like our George Washington. But while George Washington liberated only one country, Bolívar liberated five: Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Bolivia and Panama,” Juan, my guide, says.

We are just about the only visitors, as we are later when we visit Tayrona National Park. This is a wonderful jungle setting right by the coast, with tracks through rainforest teeming with monkeys and lizards.

The park must be one of the most undiscovered parts of the Caribbean. When we walk along a trail to the sea we pass a group of tiny Kogi indigenous people. They live off the land and play no part in mainstream Colombian life. The men and women stand no higher than 5ft and are wearing sack-like clothing.

They peer at us shyly and one of them points at my watch. He is curious about the time. “They have no concept of time,” my guide says. “They do not even know how old they are.”

It’s an extremely odd sensation, seeing such an out-of-the-way place, just as it is staying at the San Rafael lodges … odd, but very interesting, too.

Need to know

Getting there Original Travel (originaltravel.co.uk) offers ten-day tailor-made trips in Colombia that include two nights staying at the tourist lodges owned by former coca plantation farmers in Tayrona, from £1,995 pp.

Kuoni (kuoni.co.uk) and Last Frontiers (lastfrontiers.com) also covers Colombia.

Further information Proexport London, Colombia Tourist Office (020-7491 3535, www.colombia.travel) offers information on the country’s many tourist sights. Tourist lodges (posadasturisticas decolombia.com).

Security For latest Foreign & Commonwealth Office advice: fco.gov.uk.

Reading Colombia Handbook by Charlie Devereux (Footprint, £14.99), One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez (Penguin, £9.99) are evocative of the sleepy feel of the countryside in the north of Colombia near the tourist lodges.

First published in The Times, February 5 2011

View from above Bogota Outside my lodge Lodge Owners

Stuttgart’s Mercedes-Benz museum

Mercedes-Benz-Museum

Not everyone at the end of the 19th century was convinced by the newfangled “self-propelled cars” being built by Karl Benz and Gottlieb Daimler. After the creation of their first models, in 1886, the German Kaiser Wilhelm II asserted: “I do believe in the horse. The automobile is no more than a transitory phenomenon.”

That quote is engraved in gold on the base of a display featuring a stuffed white horse at the entrance of the multimillion-pound museum devoted to all things Mercedes-Benz, next door to its research, engine development and testing track on the edge of Stuttgart.

“You like the horse, eh?” says Monica Kleinedam, our guide, who is dressed in a charcoal grey suit, orange scarf and white blouse, and looks as if she could be about to make a presentation to a board of directors at a City firm. “That is what one horsepower looks like. Now we are going to see more . . .”

The Mercedes-Benz Museum makes a bold statement. From the outside it looks like the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao — a gleaming metallic structure with graceful curves and tinted glass, next to a flyover leading to the city centre.

The proximity to the highway is not coincidental. “The Dutch architects wanted to be by the motorway,” Kleinedam says. “They won the contract for the design because they said, ‘If you are showing cars you should be close to cars’.”

Next to the motorway is the Mercedes-Benz plant. Cars zoom around its test track. Speeding vehicles, including lorries and buses, cling to a curved wall as centrifugal forces and gravity do their bit. But just as impressive as the building is the fantastic collection of Mercedes-Benz cars, the most extensive in the world.

Gottlieb Daimler, a former gunsmith’s apprentice, built the first four-wheel, petrol-powered motor vehicle in 1886. Cumbersome steam-powered road vehicles date back as far as 1769 in France, developed by Nicolas-Joseph Cugnot, but this was a whole new ball game.

Daimler’s vehicle looked like a horse-drawn carriage — without the horse — and had a top speed of 11mph (17km/h). To put that in perspective, the Jamaican sprinter and world record holder Usain Bolt reaches speeds of 27mph during the 100 metres.

In a display unit is the “legendary Grandfather Clock” engine, which developed 650rpm compared with previous limits of about 200. “This is the beginning of driving,” Kleinedam says as she leads us to Karl Benz’s three-wheel version, also created in 1886.

Benz, the son of an engine driver, was, like Daimler, brought up near Stuttgart. He ran a foundry supplying building materials, and began experimenting with engines in the 1870s.

Fans of Top Gear could spend a lot of time in this museum, I soon realise.

As we wind our way around the circular building, we see more rickety-looking early designs, as well as the world’s first petrol-engined fire engine, developed by Benz in 1892, and the first bus, adapted by breweries to carry barrels. “The horses were quite happy with this invention,”Kleinedam jokes.

A display shows early “gentlemen drivers”, who broke with the tradition of chauffeur-driven vehicles and took the wheel themselves.

Most seemed to favour large moustaches, white suits and pith helmets, a dress code that apparently was all the rage around Stuttgart in the late 19th century.

By 1900 the cars were zipping along at 35mph as Daimler led the way with vehicles with radiators at the front that allowed engine parts to cool more efficiently. Soon after, a local businessman began entering races with Daimler cars under the first name of his daughter, Mercedes. They were hugely successful, and “Mercedes” stuck — later becoming Mercedes-Benz when the companies merged in 1926.

As this history develops, the cars get better and better. By the mid-1920s there are gorgeous, red, low-slung sports cars with top speeds of 100mph, limousines with diesel engines in the 1930s, and futuristic, silver, bullet-like cars with plush red leather interiors and flip-up doors in the 1950s.

“They were very interesting if you had a young lady in a short skirt who wanted to get out, ” Kleinedam says.

On display in the museum’s side rooms are early lorries, police cars, Formula One racing cars, vans, taxis and even a “Papa Mobile”, created for Pope John Paul II in 1980. After the 1981 assassination attempt a bulletproof version was produced.

The colours of the 1960s models are glorious: deep oranges, emeralds and ruby reds, all making you wonder why manufactuers are so conservative now with their greys, silvers and blacks.

Kleinedam tells us that seatbelts were patented in 1903 and became compulsory in Germany in 1976 (Britons were made to wear them in front seats in 1983). And we see a series of gleaming racing cars covered in advertisements for Bridgestone, Vodafone, Esso and Mobil.

By this stage there is no doubt: Wilhelm II was definitely wrong. Or perhaps, if the green brigade has its way and restrictions are placed on “carbon criminal” driving, he was right — but just didn’t know why.

Either way, the Jeremy Clarksons of the world will enjoy the Mercedes-Benz Museum.

Need to know

Mercedes-Benz Museum (00 49 711 1730000, www.mercedes-benz.com/museum), Mercedesstrasse 100, Stuttgart. Admission £5.50.

Mo.hotel (00 49 711 280560, www.mo-hotel.de), Hauptstrasse 26, Stuttgart, is owned by DaimlerChrysler and has rooms from £87 a night.

British Airways (www.ba.com) has return flights from Heathrow to Stuttgart from £116.

First published in The Times, June 20 2009

Pictures from the museum

Mercedes-Benz-Museum Mercedes-Benz-Museum Mercedes-Benz-Museum

On the trail of Kate and Wills

On the trail of Kate and Wills

William and Kate apparently discussed getting married for the first time in the summer of 2007 in the Seychelles — they like to get out and about, as they’re movements even before getting married showed…

Mustique, St Vincent and the Grenadines
They love it. They’ve been several times. It’s expensive, exclusive and where A-list celebs such as Mick Jagger, Tommy Hilfiger, Shania Twain and Bryan Adams own villas. The royal couple are said to enjoy a drink at Basil’s Bar, the only drinking hole, where Prince William has a preference for vodka with cranberry juice, while Kate goes for Sunset Premium rum cocktails. Their last visit to the tiny island — which has about 100 villas and a single hotel (the Cotton House) — was in August 2009.

During their holidays on Mustique it is believed that they have stayed at Villa Hibiscus, which is usually let at £10,000 a week and is set on a hill with an infinity pool and five bedrooms. The Prince’s group was seen playing volleyball and Frisbee, and Prince William has, island moles report, played tennis with Richard Branson. Other celebrity visitors to Mustique, where most people travel around by “mule” (the local nickname for golf buggies), include Kate Moss and Amy Winehouse. And, of course, there’s already a royal connection. Princess Margaret, who went on a Caribbean cruise for her royal honeymoon with Lord Snowdon, built Les Jolies Eaux on the island in the 1960s after being given a plot of land as a wedding present. Regular visitors have included Jagger and Lord Lichfield, her cousin .

Go like a royal Carrier (0161-491 7620, carrier.co.uk) offers seven nights at The Cotton House (cottonhouse.net) from £1,775pp, including flights from Gatwick and transfers. Villa Hibiscus (villarentals@mustique.vc, mustique-island.com, 00 784 488 8000) is from £10,000 a week, including chef, maid, butler and gardener.

Desroches, The Seychelles
After a three-month split in 2007, the royal couple rekindled their romance on a break on the small Indian Ocean island of Desroches in the Seychelles, about 230km (143 miles) southwest of Mahé, the capital. The island is less than 5km long, has a population of about 50 and is surrounded by 14km of beautiful white-sand beaches. Apparently it was here that they first discussed marriage after their reconciliation following their April split.

The island, encircled by coral reefs, consists of a series of modern beach villas, with minimalist interiors and exposed wood floors. Each villa comes with a pair of bicycles for getting about, and is set amid tropical gardens no more than 25m from the sea’s edge.

While they were there, Prince William and Kate went on fishing trips and played pool with a honeymooning couple — who later told a newspaper that Prince William encouraged his counterpart to “snooker” Kate. On one fishing trip Prince William caught a barracuda, which the couple later ate. Kate used Soltan sun cream, which fellow guests noted with approval as showing a down-to-earth touch.

Go like a royal Elite Vacations (01707 371000, seychelleselite.co.uk) offers a week’s all-inclusive in a junior suite from £3,349pp.

Lewa Wildlife Conservancy, Kenya
Prince William popped the question on the edge of Lake Rutundu last October, in the foothills of Mount Kenya (10,200ft above sea level). He and Kate had been staying at Lewa Downs, an upmarket safari lodge owned by Ian Craig, whose daughter Jecca is a close friend. But to get some privacy, the couple flew by helicopter to the nearby Rutundu Log Cabins, two rustic-chic cabins by the lake, where a bottle of chilled champagne was waiting in an outdoor cupboard to celebrate the engagement in case of a “yes”.

When this was duly delivered, they spent an evening in one of the isolated cabins, usually popular with fishermen. Each cabin has rough wooden beams and moss on the log walls. There are also open fireplaces and sheepskin rugs. “Thank you for such a wonderful 24 hours,” Kate wrote in the visitors’ book, “I love the warm fires and candle lights — so romantic! Hope to be back again soon.”

After Eton, Prince William spent some time on the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy during a gap year. Kenya holds a special place in royal hearts because it was at the Treetops Hotel in Nyeri that Queen Elizabeth learnt in 1952 that her father, George VI, had died and that she had succeeded to the throne.

Go like a royal Rutundu Log Cabins (laikipiatourism.com), both cabins are from £282 a night; they sleep eight. A week in a Lewa Wildlife Conservancy cottage is from £2,844pp with W&O Rainbow Tours (020-7226 1004, rainbowtours.co.uk). President Clinton once stayed there.

Klosters, Switzerland
This upmarket Swiss ski resort, a long-time favourite of the Prince of Wales (one of the ski lifts is named after him), is home to a couple of Prince William and Kate Middleton “firsts”. Their relationship first became public when they were pictured skiing there together in March 2004. During this trip Prince William was reported as saying: “I don’t want to get married until I’m at least 28 or maybe 30.” They were later, in January 2006, photographed kissing for the first time at the resort, creating a media storm.

Prince Charles usually favours the five-star Walserhof Hotel, where he has taken Prince William and Prince Harry. Before the Prince married Lady Diana Spencer, she was a member of one of his royal skiing parties, sparking rumours about an impending marriage. While Prince William enjoys the hotel, he is also believed to have stayed at a chalet costing as much as £69,000 a week on one trip with Kate. His wife-to-be is thought to be a better skiier than the Prince, although he is said to have once accosted a paparazzo who was struggling to follow them and said: “You ski like a girl.”

Go like a royal Ski Solutions (020-7471 7777, skisolutions.com) offers a week’s B&B at the Walserhof from £1,340pp, including transfers and flights. Oxford Ski (01865 398130, oxfordski.com) offers a week at chalet Eugenia, rumoured to be where Prince William and Kate stayed, from about £30,000 a week.

Restormel Manor, near Lostwithiel, Cornwall
The Middletons spent a few days at Restormel Manor over Christmas in 2009. The manor is part of the Prince of Wales’s Duchy of Cornwall estate, though it is believed that the family paid full whack for their stay; about £3,000 a week. Prince William is said to have recommended the nine-bedroom property, which sleeps 18, with three sitting rooms, a boot room, an indoor pool and a tennis court (Kate is a decent player). He did not go over that Christmas period but has previously stayed along with Prince Harry.

Restormel Manor is 500 years old and the largest of several properties on the site, about one mile outside Lostwithiel; the smallest cottage sleeps four. It’s at the head of the Fowey valley beside the River Fowey and close to Restormel Castle. The manor has a wood-chip boiler, in line with Prince Charles’s love of all things green.

Prince William and Kate are Cornwall fans. The tourist board says that they celebrated the Prince’s 27th birthday at “a secluded cottage using the names Mr and Mrs Smith”. It also says that they had a picnic with friends at Polkerris Holiday Park in Par, while Prince William and Prince Harry have watched a rugby match at the Royal British Region Club in Fowey.

Go like a royal Premier Cottages (01579 346473, premiercottages.co.uk) has the smallest Restormel cottage at £400-£750 a week; the manor is £750-£3,250.

St Andrews, Scotland
The University of St Andrews is, of course, where it all began. The royal couple first met in September 2001 while studying art history (though Prince William later switched to geography, achieving a 2:1). But it was the famous charity fashion show during which Kate modelled a sheer black lace dress that really caught the Prince’s attention; he was pictured craning his neck to see her.

This show was held at the Fairmont hotel, a five-star retreat on a clifftop, set in 520 acres with a golf course and a spa. The Prince regularly used the hotel’s gym and spa during his undergraduate days. He also “enjoyed fruit cocktails in the Atrium and Kittocks Den”, according to the hotel. The fashion show was held where the Squire restaurant is now located.

Prince William’s favourite bar, however, was at the St Andrews Golf Hotel. He often enjoyed pints of cider here with friends. The unpretentious drinking hole now boasts of its cocktail shooters, pitchers of beer and “Cheesy Tuesday nights with DJ Charlie”.

After living in St Salvator’s Hall in his first year, the Prince moved to a townhouse on Hope Street, close to the beautiful beach on West Sands, where he often walked with Kate.

Go like a royal Fairmont St Andrews (01334 837000, fairmont.com) has two-night “Royal Wedding” packages on April 29 from £229pp.

The Cotswolds
The Cotswolds have been a favourite haunt for Prince William and Kate during their courtship. They have been to the races at Cheltenham, and Kate was also once invited to the Royal Box for the Cheltenham Gold Cup without the Prince, when the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall were hosts. They have also attended events at the Beaufort Polo Club, near Tetbury, where Prince William and Prince Harry have played in front of Kate (with paparazzi lurking all over the place).

Not far away in Sherston, Wiltshire, Prince William has been known to enjoy a drink at the Rattlebone Inn, a 17th-century pub with a roaring fire, exposed beams and a flagstone floor. The pub serves Young’s real ales as well fruity clarets and the menu includes pigeon breast and black-pudding salad and confit of Gloucester Old Spot pork belly with scrumpy cider gravy.

The Wild Duck at Ewen, near Cirencester, has also lured the Prince in for a tipple or two. It’s a traditional 16th-century inn with lots of nooks and crannies and dried hops hanging from beams, plus a dozen designer bedrooms at the back. Food includes venison burgers and Thai curries, and a bottle of 1997 Château L’Angelis Grand Cru Classe St Émilion will set a prince back £150, though William is said to prefer pints.

Go like a royal Cheltenham Racecourse (cheltenham.co.uk); Rattlebone Inn (the rattlebone.co.uk); Wild Duck Inn (thewildduckinn.co.uk), doubles from £110.

Chelsea, London
Away from the London limelight Prince William and Kate have hung out at the Builders Arms in Chelsea. The gastro pub is in a Georgian building with wood-panel walls tucked away on Britten Street, just off the King’s Road. The menu includes poached salmon salad, devilled kidneys on toast and beer-battered fish and chips. Another favourite is Julie’s Restaurant and Bar in Holland Park, where they have eaten regularly and occasionally dined at a table with red curtains that can be drawn for privacy.

To party like a royal, Mahiki is the Hawaiian-themed nightclub to try, on Dover Street in Mayfair, and run by Prince William’s close friend Guy Pelly. The Prince has visited many times as have other royals and celebrities such as Jay-Z, Kate Moss and Rihanna. The club is set over two floors and offers £5,500 jeroboam bottles of Cristal champagne. Pelly has also recently opened Public, a Prince William and Kate-friendly bar in Chelsea offering a “virgin industrial glam clubbing heaven” .

Go like a royal Builders Arms (geronimo-inns.co.uk), Julie’s Restaurant (juliesrestaurant.com), Mahiki (mahiki.com), Public (public.uk.com).

Balmoral, Scotland
In the early days of their romance, Balmoral was where Prince William got to know Kate, whose parents recently visited and were photographed at the estate. Ingrid Seward, editor of Majesty magazine, which pitches itself as the “Quality Royal Magazine”, believes that the honeymoon will include at least a few days at the 50,000-acre property. It’s not such a wild guess given that six royal honeymoons have taken place at Birkhall, Prince Charles’s residence on the vast estate, including the Queen and Prince Philip’s in 1947 (they also spent some time at Broadlands, the Mountbattens’ country house near Romsey in Hampshire). Edward and Sophie took their honeymoon at Birkhall, as did Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall.

Go like a royal Hilton Craigendarroch (01339 755858, hilton.co.uk) is about eight miles away, with doubles from £158.

Coast to coast, Canada
Six weeks after their honeymoon, the couple’s first official overseas tour will be a nine-day trip to Canada, departing on June 30. The east-to-west journey will take in Alberta, the Northwest Territories, Prince Edward Island, Quebec and the National Capital Region. On Canada Day (July 1) it is believed they will be in Ottawa for celebrations. Prince William last visited the country, one of the 15 overseas realms of which he will one day be King, in 1998 when he was 15. The Prime Minister of Canada, Stephen Harper, has promised to “provide them with all that our country has to offer” and is believed to be planning a royal banquet.

Go like a royal Bon Voyage (0800 3163012, bon-voyage.co.uk) offers a 15-day tour across Canada by train travelling from Toronto and taking in Winnipeg, Jasper, Lake Louise, Banff, Kamloops and Vancouver costing from £2,669, with five-star hotels along the way, two nights in sleeper compartments and flights.

Anglesey, Wales
When the dust of the royal wedding and the honeymoon settles so will Prince William and Kate: in Anglesey. For Prince William it will be back to work at RAF Valley, where he began a three-year posting as a search and rescue helicopter pilot in April last year. He rents a remote, £750-a-month cottage on the island and is said to enjoy walking in the countryside with Kate. They’re often spotted out and about (complete with security guards), and have enjoyed a drink or two at the White Eagle at Rhoscolyn — which has a fine selection of real ales and terrific views to Snowdonia.

Prince William is also said to go with his RAF pals to the Valley Hotel, near his base — sometimes on its quiz night. He and Kate occasionally go for meals at the grand Plas Dinas Country House, just across the water from Anglesey. The Prince also orders royal takeaways from the Flaming Grill burger bar. Meanwhile, Kate shops at the local Waitrose . . . apparently.

Go like a royal White Eagle (white-eagle.co.uk); Valley Hotel (valley-hotel-anglesey.co.uk), Plas Dinas Country House (01286 830214, plasdinas.co.uk) has doubles from £140.

First published in The Times, April 16 2011