Tales from the Gael

Chengdu – Sanjijang – 26^thMay

Another train – 18 hours of hell. Noise, snoring and insomnia. Hours passed, so difficult even to toss and turn when on a thin bunk with a long drop down. The only highlight was a little fairy girl who charmed us all. She was so excited to be sharing a compartment with us, and she was right on the top.

Dawn broke and John and I made tea and ate a squashed almond croissant that was pure heaven. Baby wipes freshened me up and a splodge of lipstick was applied with the swaying of the train and I was ready for our new destination. We were now in the south, in Sanijang, where rice fields have replaced the wheat fields and pumpkins have been planted in every nook and cranny.

When we left the train we were driven for miles and miles, past towns and villages and then up and up, round snaky corners where vegetation was dripping with moisture. We were in the land of the ethnic minorities. We were going to a Dong minority village that lies amidst the forested hills along the Hunan-Guizhou-Guangxi borders.

People were once banished here 900 years ago to the so called Blue Sky Prisons, where they suffered inhospitable conditions -murderously hot in summer and bitterly cold in winter. The Emperor thought he was issuing a death sentence, but he didn’t take into account the resilience of these people. Instead of dying, they carved the mountains to their own designs, forced the vegetables and rice to grow and they survived and thrived. A hill wasn’t really a hill, it was just a way of growing rice vertically!

We went along and watched these modern people dance to the traditional tunes of their ancestors, John photographed children and I photographed grannies.

We looked in Drum Towers,

the  communal village meeting houses where people watched TV together, played ping pong, or gossiped and paraded around with crystal chandeliers on their heads.

The next day Frank announced that there were to be no more busses –  instead we must hike, up to 2000 m across the ‘Dragon’s backbone’ – way into the mists and swirling rice fields where lonely farmers bent and hoed the muddy clay earth,

and where the graves of their relations nestled into the hillsides, adorned with paper money and flowers.

These Zhuang people, the largest of China’s minority groups, can trace their ancestry back to the Tai, who migrated south from central China some 5000 years ago.

Valiantly we followed our leader.

When we arrived at our guesthouse, panting with exertion, suddenly spread below us was a scene from Shangri La. The mists swirled, before finally settling, and we ate vegetables and pork and chicken and drank cold Chinese beer. We slept soundly before waking to a world of cloud. Could this be heaven?

We set off again, hiking up peaks and down, stopping to admire a butterfly, a rice field or a grave. We saw white hydrangeas growing like weeds and still we climbed, muscles screaming, up into the sky and still the rice paddies circled around us.

It may once have been the blue sky prison but now this region attracts tourists from all around the world. That night in Ping An, as we ate around our Lazy Susan, we shared a dining room with Dutch and German tourists. They had come up another way, by bus. They had only to walk about half an hour to get to this lofty elevation.

We bought silly knickknacks from gorgeous grannies and stunning girls. The Sichuan pepper man was dressed in military uniform as though he had just deserted. He was about eighty. He shook John’s hand mightily. It was only a small transaction, just a pouch of pepper but – ‘let’s shake on it!’ I asked Frank if he had made friends with the ethnic minority people, after all he had been bringing groups to these parts for the last seventeen years. He said, ‘Not really, I am Han Chinese, the majority group in China; the ethnic Dong tend to keep to themselves, they are friendly but they don’t take you into their hearts.’

I was quite sad to leave Ping An. We snaked back down the mountain and then drove for three hours to Yangshuo. We drove through towns with shop names that said “Happy Life, Happy to have YOU”. We drove down avenues of larch/pine for miles and miles, passed verdant agriculture and pristine orchards. The trees standing as though they were on parade and in the distance there were more trees, like lollipops  silhouetted against a washed out sky.

Chinese painters have such a perfect, endless canvas of  choice. Distant mountains receding in hues of emerald through to eau de nil.

And then finally we came to Yangshuo, set beneath a backdrop of towering karst mountains amongst some of the most scenic landscapes that China can offer. The bizarre array of dome-like pinnacles and towers are of the same family as those in Halong Bay in Vietnam. Oh wow!

Yangshuo – 29^thMay

 Yangshuo is like a popping sherbet town – fizzy, vibrant and touristy. It was settled by Western backpackers years ago and sports a West Street and a legacy of muesli and French Toast and English breakfast and New Zealand steaks. And of course pizza. I even had a durian pizza, that was just too wonderful to describe!

We suddenly found ourselves in a holiday town.

I signed up for a cookery class with three others from the group. We found ourselves in the company of a female Ghengis Khan.

First we went on a trip to the fruit and meat market, where we saw turtles, frogs, snails, snakes, rabbits, dogs, cats, intestines, snouts, ears and eels.

‘And over here,’ Mrs Khan shouted, ‘we have pumpkins and squash – we used to feed them to the pigs, but now we feed them to the foreigners. They seem to like them.’

Our woks, cleavers, chopping boards and little gas stoves were in place.

Our teacher kept up a constant tirade, ‘Chop carrot, chop pak choy, fry garlic – heat on! Heat off, add soy, add oyster sauce, heat on,  add ginger, heat off.’ I was absolutely terrified. I looked around at Gill – her hat was all askew, Patty was pink in the face, Terrence was tweaking his dumplings, and we all had that look of total concentration and fear! Somehow we served up four dishes each and ate them. I cannot tell you how delicious they were! Gong Bao Chicken, steam dumplings with pork and vegetables, fried noodles with mixed vegetables, and braised tofu with mushroom. Phew! Yes Chef, no Chef, at once Chef!

This town is surrounded by limestone mountains. I feel as though I have been transported to Halong Bay. I was happy to look and admire, but Frank had other ideas. ‘Much better to get up close.’

We hired bicycle – I was beautifully coordinated with a blue ‘shopper’ bike with dodgy brakes and a bell with a mind of its own. John raced about on his red devil with 24 gears, only one of which worked – his brakes didn’t work at all!

Our group cycled along the river, admiring the pink lotus, rice paddies and mountains; it was all so quiet and rural all through the country back lanes.

Later we transferred on to bamboo rafts and sat like an emperor and empress on rickety chairs as a punter pushed us along and down the rapids.

China has a population of 1.4 billion people, but for that hour as we sailed down the river, surrounded by unique mountains and feathery bamboo we were ALONE. It was quiet, there was no shouting, no music, no one yelling on the phone. Just tranquillity. It was perfect.

And then the climb. Vertical steps in red hot humidity up to the summit of Moon Mountain.

Our ascent coincided with a pretty Chinese girl in a pretty dress. At the top, I posed beside her. She was hot – but appeared as cool as a cucumber. We smiled together. Martin was convinced she smiled at him  too. She probably did!

And then the horrific descent on the slippery path. I fell (of course) and it was scary, but thank goodness, all was well.

John was very chuffed in the night market as he bartered for a Picasso ‘silk’ scarf for me. It was 180  yuan, which he go down to 30. Turning the corner they were selling the same  scarf for 20! Oh dear, never mind, I shall wear it with pride, a beautiful kaleidoscope of colourful memories.

And now another train. We are in Guilin, people are fussing, bags are being stored and I write. We have 18 hours ahead of us before our destination in Shanghai.

A journey in a train tends to make me sentimental – the rattling along past fields, towns and stations manages to make me indulge in a saccharine sort of sadness. I look out of the window and must appear sad, but I am really happy. I just love the quickly changing panoramic view of the country as I see it sliding swiftly by and I myself being hurtled forward; it is like a flight of time, the eternal flux.

The train is well on its way now. Marcus is on the rice wine (a more blended brew) and Terrence is singing ‘I shot the sheriff’ and Janet is  teaching Dijon how to juggle. (She once did it on the stage – but she was not so good in a pitching carriage.)

There is a hum of conversation. The light is going. We have had two beers and I feel vaguely mellow. Last night I drank the last of my own rice wine, bought from the Dong people in the mountains. It had an exquisite colour – like clouds at sunset and the taste of port with just a touch of tartness.

Now it is time to get back to ‘The Golden Lotus’ – the story and language is getting more colourful:

‘You thievish turtle – I’ll beat his turtle face till its green. I won’t have a rapscallion like that behaving in such a way – he is full to the brim of vice.’

‘You rascal, you little oily mouth.’

And so on. Life in 14^thCentury China!

China Diaries – 4

Chongquing to Chengdu – 24 May

When I last wrote we were on the cruise boat, all set to leave the Yangtze River.

In the morning drizzle we had to walk across the gang planks, flip flops splashing through puddles, our luggage heavy. The way ahead seemed interminable.

Suddenly the Bang Bang boys arrived. Oh what joy, and so unexpected. These were the ‘luggage wallahs’ – a black market service that was just so welcome. A thin wiry man with a pole across his shoulders heaved our bags up the steep hill and up vertical steps. The little legs moved with the ease of a centipede. We plodded behind, terrified we might slip.

We were in Chongqing, famous for the ‘three hots’ i.e. hot climate, hot girls and Hot Pot. Frank also told us that it was here that Chiang Kai-shek had his headquarters for the Nationalist government from 1939-45. Apparently he had imprisoned 200 communists in a cave and shot them all before leaving for Tai Wan.

But now it is a huge city of 36 million, including the suburbs, and as we struggled up behind our bang bang ‘boy’ we saw hawkers with oranges, eggs, live chickens and squirming eels in baskets. It was hard to concentrate on the task in hand which was to get up to the bus safely.

At a traffic light we were stopped for a while in the morning rush hour. I watched as the morning commuters stopped at a pancake vendor. He was so slick, I was just mesmerised. He thinly spread a pancake on a sizzling plate then broke two eggs on to the mixture and threw on a handful of spring onions.

Then he flipped it over, spread some chilli sauce and some coriander then threw on a handful of barbecued pork then flipped the sides up to make a parcel.

What a breakfast, and it all took a couple of minutes.

We then had a blast on the bullet train. Such luxury, such speed. We recorded our top speed of 298 km. an hour.

And at last we were in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan Province.

We unloaded our luggage at the ominously named Traffic Hotel and then off we went exploring.

I loved Chengdu.

‘A city,’ Frank said, ‘which is excellent for those who are retired or who like a quiet life. You can get up, smoke four cigarettes then have a cup of tea, then a shower then two more cigarettes then go for breakfast. You can then go to the People’s Park, then amble off to look for a good restaurant selling Hot Pot.’

Well, retirees we are and so off we went to the People’s Park.

What a fabulous place. Gingko trees, vibrant flowers, bamboo and creepers, lush, lush, lush.

Oh – and a cacophony of noise! Dancers, musicians and mini orchestras.

We watched a bossy lady in a peach cardigan and scary shoes organising a dance show.

It was too much for John!

Round the corner calligraphers practised their art by painting with water on the paving stones, so beautiful, and it all just fades away.

A dating service is held along the railings. Particulars are written for those seeking love.

Our young lads got a translation. A girl, born in 1986 with very white skin and her own car was seeking love. Terence was sorely tempted. She might have been able to support him!

We sat and drank tea, then were accosted by the ear-cleaning mafia.

I succumbed to curiosity and had long skinny instruments with fluffy ends stuck in my ears; my ear doctor sported a miner’s light on his head and had a tuning fork that he vibrated in my ear drum. It actually was not unpleasant.

John was chicken, I actually think he needed the treatment more than me as he suffers from selective deafness … in my opinion!

The evening was drawing in and it was time to search for the Sichuan Hot Pot.

A steaming cauldron of boiling chilli and oils. Slivers of beef are dunked in and cooked then eaten; mushrooms, quails’ eggs, tofu and vegetables were all added. A delicious bowl of sesame oil, garlic and ginger is at hand for dipping the meat in after it is cooked.

Our noses ran, our eyes were dripping tears but still we dipped and slurped. I just loved it.

Downtown Chengdu and the night was alive with sights and sounds and we mimed the exercise class,

watched random tea ceremonies

before watching a performance of the Chinese Opera.

I nibbled sunflower seeds and downed bowl after bowl of scalding Jasmine tea. Acrobats twisted and whirled, ancient Chinese heroines screeched and a virtuoso string player made his instrument just about get up and sing for itself. Wonderful Chinese variety show.

The next morning we visited the Pandas. Chengdu means pandas to the world at large, and once we beheld those big fluffy living toys we forgot all the other plusses of this fun town. They ate their bamboo, ambled about and were actually AWAKE. All the other pandas I have had the pleasure of viewing in zoos in New Zealand and Edinburgh have been fast asleep.

Here in China they have a beautiful, spacious environment and are hugely popular, and quite rightly so.

After our visit, Frank decided to dispense with proper restaurants and took us instead to a street stall where the cook wore a rather fetching dress with a fashionable veil to hide her legs.

We got Sichuan noodles with pork. So simple, so cheap and from my point of view when I am writing this, it was the most tasty dish I ate in China. It cost £3 each.

And now on, to another night train. This  time going further south.

China Diaries – 3

Train to Yichang and the Yangtze River Cruise Boat – 20^thMay.

We travelled fourteen and half hours on the train from Xian to Yichang before arriving at 1 a.m. on the cruise boat, the Hua Xia Goddess.

The journey began in the early morning so we could see the passing countryside as we travelled. From my window on the train I could see construction going on everywhere, but the spaces in between is tilled earth, bursting with green beans and corn on the cob plants, feathery leaves and spring onions. High rises cluster together, housing hundreds and thousands of people. Our train chugged past and I couldn’t help wondering and imagining what domestic dramas were being enacted behind each window.

We arrived at the cruise boat in the dark; Frank, our stalwart guide, told us to be careful on the steep steps leading down to the boat or we may fall ‘tits over arse’ and it would cost ‘an arm and a leg’ to get fixed up with insurance etc. He has a fondness for picturesque language.

We are now moored on the great Yangtze river, pieces of our laundry are hanging from all sorts of hangers in our room. Quite colourful and very necessary.

Outside our cabin I am assaulted by sound. Chinese tourists chattering like parrots, shouting and shrilling at each other. Everything they say, even into a telephone, is shouted. Above us the sky is white with cloud but in the distance a watercolour of mountains nestle in pockets of cobwebby mist – utterly beautiful.

23^rdMay

Yangtze cruising has been such an unexpected experience. There are our group of Brits, a group of Australians and a huge number of excitable Chinese. We eat three meals a day in the western restaurant, the upgraded section where we enjoy free flowing beer and  coffee and load our plates with Sichuan chicken, aubergines, courgettes and pork. There is no chance of scurvy on this trip, and at last Helen has stopped demanding vegetables. On another table I saw more dishes, one of which looked like bacon. Hmm, it looked nice and had lots of cabbage with it, so I spooned some on to my plate. I chewed a piece, it was a bit stringy but I persisted.

‘How are you enjoying the pig’s ear?’ Frank asked whilst slurping his beside me. Aaargh! Rich took a liking to duck’s flippers. Too awful to contemplate.

We made two excursions off the ‘mother ship’ – one to the Three Gorges Dam Project, the largest hydroelectric dam on the planet. It was mighty and had a locking system similar to that on the Caledonian Canal in Scotland. This one obviously catered for much larger ships. This controversial dam is supposed to control the Yangtze’s occasional devastating floods and provide electricity for central China. 1.3 million people were forced to relocate when it was constructed.

We walked about and marvelled at the amazing engineering. The Chinese just wanted to photograph each other or take selfies. I took a shot of John and Dijon looking like demons on the roofs of buildings, deep in conversation.

Yesterday we took a trip through the Three Gorges with another tour guide, Gorgeous George. We sailed through towering mountains of 900m to Wushan, which means ‘Smoky Mountain’ and one of the Australian tourists, Lionel, sketched as we sailed.

The Chinese tourists continued to take selfies the whole way.  We bought tea made from bushes that grow on the mountain tops, John (with the help of Gorgeous George) fought valiantly through the throng of Chinese matrons to get some for us. It promises everything, probably life everlasting, as it is grown in a pollution-free mountain range. We shall see.

Gorgeous George told us they are building tunnels through the mountains for a high speed bullet train to come straight from Beijing. He was very excited about the project, and had bought some real estate in readiness for the area to just ‘take off’.

Meanwhile the boat chugged  off, past the fabled 3000 monkeys (we saw a dozen) and squinted up to the holes in the cliffs where coffins were placed 2000 years ago. God only knows how they got those stone coffins up there. Normally only nesting birds have access to such sheer faces. Of  course not in China, as all the pretty birds are in cages or on platters for supper. Only the magpies and sparrows seem to be allowed to live freely.

It was a beautiful morning. The rain cleared and for a few hours we just drifted through a moving Chinese painting. I could see fir trees standing along the tops of mountains, sort of reminiscent of iron filings.

We came down to earth again when we mingled with our fellow passengers, the spitters. I have tried to ignore them, avoiding splats of mucus on the pavements, looked away from the incessant hawking – but here on the boat it is literally in your face (so to speak). The sound is a bit like the last gallon of water leaving the bath. I queued on the boat amidst a gaggle of women waiting for the ‘squat’ and one made the loudest suctioning hoick and then spat into a receptacle by the door. Then she pulled up her slacks to clear her shoes, then waddled into the toilet. When she came out she was in the process of pulling up her pants. She gave me a grunt as she passed out into the milling throng. My thigh muscles are getting very good. I am getting fit in the oddest of places!

Today is the last day on the boat and the staff gave us a dancing show last night. Tonight is the turn of the passengers.

Ladies on the top deck have been practicing madly with their own personal ‘boom box’. Middle-aged ladies are reliving their dance moves; elegant arms, intricate steps with chubby tummies and pudding faces. They even had matching red and black outfits. I can’t wait to see them perform tonight.

No doubt there will be singing, lots of it. Our group is planning doing Old Macdonald had a Farm. Rich is a French Horn player in NY and he prides himself on his musical abilities; he plans to sing Love Me Tender. Janet thinks she was born to dance so I think I shall have a couple of beers to set myself up to enjoy the evening.  Hi di Hi campers!

But for now the boat sails on through the brown waters and the odd town and village passes by.  Shoddy looking blocks of flats dot the hillsides. China is such a contrast. Beautiful, beautiful natural beauty and a race of people hell bent on expanding, building and controlling.

After the Cultural revolution Deng Xiaoping invested hugely in universities and hospitals but not on roads, buildings or infrastructure, now I am seeing signs of change and as the boat glides around bends we see the ugliness of new towns emerging along this part of the Yangtze. Quite a contrast with the modern skyscrapers of the modern cities.

Things are changing, and modernisation will permeate eventually to the countryside, but for now I feel as though I am in a time warp.

Time for a cup of rejuvenating tea and back to ‘The Golden Lotus’.

China -2

China – Somewhere between Xian and Yicheng – 20^thMay

Another train and I have just consumed a pot noodle. Actually quite tasty. Outside the hillsides are crawling with pumpkins, cabbages and runner beans. Wheat is being harvested. We are whizzing through tunnels, new ones are being constructed and I am alternating between Paul Theroux’s Riding the Iron Rooster(a book about his train journeys around China in 1986) and The Golden Lotus or Jin Ping Mei which he was reading whilst doing what I am doing now. I downloaded the novel on to Kindle and now I too am reading the sexually explicit novel written in the 14^thcentury and banned all through the Ming Dynasty and is still very hard to access in China today. Here is the description of when the hero, Xiamen Chin, has his first glimpse of Jin lei-men:

Her hair was black as a raven’s plumage; her eyebrows mobile as the kingfisher and as curved as a new moon.  Her almond eyes were clear and cool, and her cherry lips most inviting … Her face had the delicate roundness of a silver bowl. As for her body, it was as light as a flower, and her fingers as slender as the tender shoots of a young onion…..  etc

In another chapter, Xiamen Chin is beguiled by the sight of another woman’s bound feet – the so-called ‘lily-feet’.

Old woman Hush found an opportunity to lift Mistress Meng’s skirt slightly, displaying her exquisite feet, three inches long and no wider than a thumb …

 Xian was a huge sprawling city, we ate the speciality pulled pork burgers and dumplings, and we admired the city wall. This city wall is the only complete structure standing in all of China. Each city has only crumbling remains but Xian is fortress-like in its defence. Frank told us that the wall is constructed of bricks cemented together with a combination of sticky rice and kiwi juice. Who knew! A phenomenal glue apparently. The overseer would test the strength by getting a soldier to try and thrust his sword through the cement and if he succeeded then that worker would be killed. The wall is 15 m wide and 13 km around. Our two young lads, Terrence and Dijon from South Africa took an hour to cycle round in the hot midday sun.

John and I loved wandering through the Muslim market, a throwback from the silk traders of centuries ago. Many married and stayed and now there is a grand mosque, veiled ladies and men wearing the white caps showing that they have been on the Haj.

We bought cushion covers, T-shirts, and fruit, and admired brass and bronze relics and fake antiques. Best of all was looking at the barbequed squid on sticks, seemed strange considering we were so far from the ocean.

On a rainy morning we joined hundreds of other tourists and made our way to see the Terracotta Army. It was beautifully set out, and the pits where the warriors stand are massive. The rare quality of the warriors is that they are exactly as they were originally made. They were vandalized by rebellious peasants in the year 206 BC but after that they lay buried until in 1974 a man digging a well hit his shovel against a warrior’s head and unearthed it. Thank goodness it was after the Cultural Revolution.

We snapped and clicked and dodged elbows and after the initial shock and wonder at the sight I felt strangely moved. Was it the different expression on each of the warrior’s faces? Was it the eternal standing, the eternal waiting? For 2,200 years these life sized figures have been buried. Who were they modelled on, real men from yesteryear? It was sad – ghost like.

The mighty Emperor Qin She Huang, who ordered for his mausoleum to be built, with a high mountain behind him, like a pillow and a gold mine and jade mine at his sides, and at his feet the Yellow River. Everyone who took part in the army’s construction was killed, thus the secret of the entombment was kept until 1974.

The farmer who had been digging his well became very famous. He shook hands with many VIPs, and was groomed to speak to President Clinton. He had no English at all, but was taught to say, ‘How are you?’ and a suitable possible reply, ‘Me too’. He practiced and practiced.

The big day came. He was tonguetied with nerves. There was a lengthening silence. Behind Bill and Hillary the officials were mouthing, “HOW ARE YOU?”. Our man quickly remembered and shouted out “WHO ARE YOU?”

Bill put his arm around Hillary and said, ‘I am this lady’s husband,’ to which our terracotta founder shouted, ‘Me too!’

A good story and true.

Frank told us if anyone dared to steal a piece of the terracotta army, and was found out, they would get a bullet in the back of the neck, and his family would have to pay for the bullet.

Our group are gelling. Stories are being exchanged, the episode of the rice wine has been quietly forgotten and Marcus is quite subdued. Instead Janet is revealing herself to be a lady with a past. At 74 she is planning to give belly dancing and fire eating classes in the autumn. She has been in several TV shows, including Crossroads, and some police dramas. I rather suspect she might have been an extra. I did marvel at her account of belly dancing in Helsinki with what sounded like a chandelier on her head. She has also performed with a 13ft python. She is tiny so God knows how she held it up as well as manage to gyrate.

Walking along or sitting down to lunch you just never know what you are going to hear next.

Yesterday we went to a tea tasting event, the best teas in China apparently. There were 11 varieties. I quite liked the lychee and the ginseng oolong. John said no to everything. The thought of swishing and sieving and swishing just was too much. A tea bag is just fine!

We did buy a red mug, beautifully decorated with pomegranates,

and a greedy dragon cup. Cute little thing. An emperor had a concubine who was very fond of rice wine and was always drunk. So he devised this cup which could only hold half the amount of liquor. Too much and it syphons down the dragons mouth and spills.

We managed to leave Xian with only a few small mementos. Not so for Rich, from America. He bought a huge chunk of translucent jade, worth $4600 and he is having it shipped to NY. Such an odd guy. He wanders about staring at us eating yet he buys nothing to eat for the long train journeys. Happy to accept snacks from others though.

Last night, ‘rice wine’ Marcus called me over in the lobby of the hotel. He had downloaded the Royal Wedding pictures for me, so I looked at 96 photos of Prince Harry and Megan. Good to keep up to date!

The train trundles on. The loudspeaker system is belting out Greensleeves at the moment. I shall read more of the Golden Lotus.

Helen has just told me that her squat technique is improving. Good to know!

China – 13^thMay 2018

We arrived in Beijing and felt a little overwhelmed. The tour leader failed to send anyone to meet us, so found ourselves in a rickety taxi tearing down a six lane highway under a milky sky. Fast traffic, wide roads, concrete, nothing recognisable. Night was falling and we hadn’t a clue where we were going.

It seemed that our driver might have had an idea although he was engrossed in an audio soap opera drama – volume at fever pitch.

Suddenly we pulled off and turned right and entered a maze of picturesque streets, or a network of lanes – a hutong and suddenly we felt as though we had entered a cloistered village in the very heart of the city.  Grannies were sitting out on the street, shrieking kids were playing tag, roses and honeysuckle clambered up decrepit looking houses, and then the taxi stopped. ‘You are here – Far East Hotel.’

It was adequate, no frills but a good shower and it was clean. We wandered up the dusty street and found a restaurant that sold an array of dishes all photographed in technicolour and warm beer served in tiny liqueur glasses. Our waitress sported a bright pink T shirt with ‘Sickness’ written on it. I wonder if she knew what she was wearing?

The rest of our tour group arrived the next day, and our guide Frank whisked us off to a restaurant a bus ride away. We were ushered into an inner room with a large round table, complete  with a lazy Susan. We drank beer and ate Peking Duck and all sorts of greenery. ‘I hope we are going to have vegetables,’ whined Helen.

This would be the end of our solo journeying, and the end of our privacy for a while. It was all swapping names and information, ‘Yes, I have done India, and Turkey and the Galapagos.’ But after a beer and a huge selection of dishes we felt quite mellow. They seemed a good bunch.

Frank was three years old when the Cultural Revolution was coming to an end. ‘A terrible time,’ he said, ‘ I remember standing in line and waving a flag, but it wasn’t too bad for my family as my father was in the military.’ Frank is now married with one son. I felt he still has the military in his genes the way he barked his orders. ‘25 minutes to visit this part of the Temple of Heaven, blue roof reflects the sky – I meet you here, don’t lose your ticket,  OK – go now.’

And we did.

Later we got a bus right to the north of the city and visited the Drum Tower and Gong Palace

and ate lunch with a local resident in a very famous hutong of old Beijing. Our host was Mr Lui, a kung fu master,

and had weapons of war hanging above the dining table; they looked like medieval killer machines on sticks

– so different from the gentle souls practicing their Tai Chi that we witnessed walking through the shady trees and verdant gardens of the Temple of Heaven.

Mr Lui’s son had made a film with Jackie Chan. There were framed photographs beside the weapons. I studied them and was suitably impressed but I was really more occupied with gobbling up the delicious dumplings that the martial arts man’s wife was serving.

After lunch we stood outside, being squawked at by a caged mynah bird whilst Mr Lieu, the famous celebrity Cricket Trainer of Beijing showed off his crickets and grasshoppers.

I had no idea they needed so much paraphernalia in order to nurture them. Mouse whiskers are used to stimulate the tiny warrior, as they are very similar to a cricket’s antennae.

The star of the show, or master cricket, the winner of the greatest gambling prize (the Chinese are prone to a little flutter) is called Tiger.

Tiger posed nicely on hands and arms and didn’t even attempt to fly off. Mr Lieu preened proudly at his little star’s obedience.

We got the Metro back. Fast, efficient and clean. Helen and I needed to use the public toilets so ran to a neighbouring hutong, and it was quite a revelation. No doors for the toilets. Hmm. Just stalls and squats. I was so relieved that no one came in and walked past.

China – Thursday 17^thMay

I had to pinch myself. Today I was standing on the Great Wall of China! As we ascended in a cable car, I saw the giant letters etched on the mountain ‘Be honest to Chairman Mao’.

I could see for miles, the pointy mountains were like a beautiful water colour painting – blossoms on trees were framed by the watch tower windows.

It was hard to photograph and keep an eye on the uneven steps. Some were huge, some so small.  Then we came to a part that was vertical, impossible giant steps that you had to heave your legs up to. I was struggling up when suddenly I saw a dad carrying a small child on his shoulders. Mighty muscle man. When I reached the top I just about collapsed against the wall and John handed me a Snickers Bar as a reward. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

Looking back along the wall people were darkening the path ‘like fleas on a dead snake’ as Paul Theroux once described it. So apt. And listening to the voices around us it was as though all the nations of the earth were trudging along, five horses wide, passing each other, nodding and staring in amazement at this phenomenal sight.

John descended on a toboggan, whizzing down and thoroughly enjoying himself. I chose to walk the almost vertical path through the forest from Watchtower number 10. I lost everyone and for the forty minute descent I was alone. How amazing was that?

And now I am on the night train to Xian, on the top of a three tier bunk in a six berth compartment.

One of the group is so drunk. He has been drinking from a four litre bottle of rice wine which tasted like raw paraffin. I tried a sip and it nearly blew my head off. The smell is nauseating. He is being rude, obnoxious and aggresive. I can’t believe he is the same guy that accompanied us yesterday round the Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City and the Summer Palace.

He, Martin, John and I had sweltered in the hot sun, admiring the sights, the roses and bronze lions and tortoises.

We learnt about emperors and concubines and had tried to imagine life in these opulent and beautiful palaces where pine trees famed the tilted roofs and small regiments of lions and peacocks guarded against evil spirits.

We climbed the hill behind the Summer Palace and walked through a woody path down to the beautiful Kunming Lake. We marvelled at the Marble Boat, a little folly. An empress had squandered all of the navy budget on a double decker boat made from marble. I suppose there would not have been a lot of point in squandering it on shoes, with her feet so tiny.

People had been kind and friendly and the toilets spotless. The ‘squats’ had automatic flushes. I was beginning to feel like Michael MacIntyre, ‘That was a good one, how was it for you? We had paper, and doors!’

The train is rocking – people are settling. We have been going for six hours, only twelve more to go.