Rites of passage...

There had to come a time when one of my sons would beat me at golf.

On Saturday, it finally happened, when Sam hammered me (Sammered me?), beating me out of sight at Buckingham.

Of course, he is an absolute bandit and should have been giving me shots - after all, he is 24 and I am 61...

But I have always believed that old age and treachery would defeat youth and ambition - but I was wrong.

None of my strategies worked, and the young 'un just kept knocking the ball in the hole while I missed putts. Putt, putt, putt, and so on!

Next time, we will not play off scratch. He will have to give me shots and we will play for money.

Then we will see what happens.

Bandido!

Back in the UK

Mid afternoon, landed at Heathrow, having seen brilliant October sunshine as we descended, colouring the traditional patchwork field setting of middle England.

My car picked me up and we drove up the motorway system to MK on a perfect autumn day, trees every colour, blending from pale yellow, through gold and red, into dark green.

Two days later, still jetlagged, I had to make a dawn start to catch a train to London for a conference.

As I approached MK city centre, there was a huge orange harvest moon hanging over the hill, like a vast balloon.

The moon at dawn - brilliant!

Last look at KL

Petronas Towers - petrol dollars as far as the eye can see...

And memories of les danseuses - who identified my two left feet as the problem.

Still somewhere near the South China Sea

After the meal at Seri Melayu, I thought I had done the touristy thing - until we were taken back to Saloma, the "theatre-restaurant", where there was a good 2 hours of dancing and various stunts with blow-pipes and balloons.

More Durian scoffed, and another late Saturday night!

On Sunday, I had my first break after a week of toil. Kate and I walked up to Bukit Bintang and took the monorail to Maharajalela - less than 2 Ringgits, and a really sophisticated city transport system that shames London's Tube even more. Not that Bonking Boris would care...

We walked up to Chinatown (Jalan Petaling) and braved the crush of fake-brands and food stalls. Then found our way to the Central Market which, thankfully, was air-conditioned. I must have been dripping away gallons of perspiration and recovered in the slightly boutique-flavoured market, which Kate said had gone up in the world since she last visited.

We found somewhere to have a jug of beer and then I crashed in the hotel lounge, where the jazz combo recognised me and played Stacey Kent songs in my honour! Bliss - and a large cigar.

Life's a Beach

After a week in KL, I'm still no nearer the beach - which is about 20 miles away. The nearest I get is snacking at the hotel pool on the 10th floor in between endless meetings and conference sessions.

Every afternoon at about 3 o'clock, there is a dramatic electrical storm followed by torrential rain, which stops at about 4pm. Very tropical.

The other night, a select group of us were entertained by the Malaysian Open University at a nearby restaurant. I can say now that eating Durian fruit is over-rated, but interesting...

There was Malaysian music and then dancing by a troupe of male and female dancers performing dances from all over the Peninsular. There were some very stylised moves, with amazingly expressive hand and finger movements. It was also very athletic, as I found out when I was dragged on stage to have a go myself. Lots of pictures of me, red-faced, getting my feet in a twist and my eyes even more crossed. Exit of stout party.

Only a fortnight ago, I was in the Indonesian Embassy in London on Indonesia's National Day. The Ambassador very proudly introduced a pair of Balinese dancers who performed something very similar, but slower and more elegant. It was also very sad because it was just after a major earthquake in Sumatra, which had killed hundreds.

Kuala Lumpur in October

Hot and humid among the high-rises of this aspirational metropolis.

The Prince Hotel is grand and luxurious but also sterile. At the foot of the lifts is a large, bold sign that says:

The Durian is a highly-prized fruit that looks innocuous. But it tastes like heaven and smells like hell...

My room is on the 28th floor, with a view of the KL tower. It's rained a lot since I arrived and it feels like walking into something between a sauna and an oven when you step outside air-conditioned buildings or cars. But it's a city I like, a kind of fusion between East and West, North and South.

I had a meeting at the British Council this morning and then my guide (Siti) and her driver took me to Saloma's Restaurant for lunch: a very traditional, colonial-style building with wonderful Malay food and the usual exquisite service. Strangely, there was an Indonesian promotion going on, publicising cheap flights between KL and Jakarta.

Saloma was a singer and film star of the 1960s and we heard her songs briefly transmitted in the restaurant. She was a champion of women's liberation, rejecting the traditional Muslim veil and earned herself a niche as the darling of the cultured classes...

À la recherche du temps perdu...

In my youth, in the late 1970s, I was an editor at Penguin Books. Our office was in Grosvenor Gardens, just behind a large and rather ugly mansion, better known as Buckingham Palace. We could see the garden and, if she had been, would easily have spotted HM Queen walking the Corgies or hanging out her washing, or other regal activities.

Sometimes, when feeling flush (quite often at that age - no kids, no mortgage), we used to lunch at a little French restaurant in Ebury Street, just off Sloane Square.

So it was very special and exhilerating, 30 years after our last visit, to reunite with Lizy and David at La Poule au Pot, and to discover that it hadn't changed a bit - and nor had David and Lizy. David is now a successful film-maker and Lizy is a successful novelist. Here we are, post-prandial, and flushed with our pride at rediscovering each other: remembrance of times past, indeed!

Last week in Lüneburg, Germany

Working in Leuphana University in Lüneburg, near Hamburg, we took time out to be given a guided tour of this ancient and traditional German town. We saw loads of five-step gabled houses and heard the Meissen porcelain bells at Das Rathaus toll out the hours. But what tickled my imagination was the story of the fabled White Boar of Lüneburg!
Allegedly, this beast, renowned for its 'nose', sniffed out the best salt deposits under the Lüneburg Heath. It was salt mining, over many centuries, that made the good burghers of the town so rich. Mining only ceased here in 1980, but the signs of centuries of extraction are visible in the subsidence that is prevalent throughout the town, such that some of the houses are still moving and the cobbled roads are treacherous! The subsidence area is most visible in the historic quarter, and it's known as the Senkungsgebiet.
The White Boar? White, because covered in salt - and now one of the icons of Lower Saxony!

Roaming on the Heath

Returned, regrouped, back at work and feeling much warmer towards the teenagers after two glorious weeks in their company (well, the three who came with us). H is back from Ibiza looking like a god and S is back from Scotland, where he swanned around in his Mercedes-Benz, probably identified as a marauding Sassenach (although a quarter of his genes are Scots).

Yesterday, he and I played golf at Tadmarton Heath for the Old Bloxhamists' golf day and I came home having won a massive silver cup. Made son proud of his old dad but it will take some polishing for the next year before I have to return it to some other lucky winner. I'm tempted to photograph it for this blog, but that might be ott. Still, it was a good father/son bonding moment...

Tadmarton apparently means "where the toads cross".

That must go down as one of my favourite placenames, along with Piddletrenthide in Dorset, which always made me and Aunt Elizabeth chuckle when we drove to and from school in the 1960s.

TEENAGERS

Here are four of my sons, with a few cousins and assorted amigos added to the mix - mostly pre-testosteroned, stoned teens.

Don't you just love 'em? goes the trite and twee refain. Do I hell...! They are making my life one long round of driving, spending, arguing and compromising - and, if no compromise, gargatuan battles.

But, the difference between teasing and bullying is who has the power and who has the confidence? Who has authority and who shows the arrogance? In the teenage kulturkampf, these roles shift and switch without warning, between adults and kids.

This is how they used to look, little darlings, after a few weeks mellowing in the Scillies...

Paddy, Joe and Nicky, bleached and biddable...

Can we do it?

Every year, the same question: can we pack small and travel light? As I type, I can hear the washing machine squealing in terminal pain... Imagine the noise if you rode a truck with no tyres across a tin roof which was covered in rocks. Then double it. Add the occasional crash of raw steel slamming into concrete.

The BOSCH has not got long to live, so we may never get to empty its last wash: less to carry.

I'm not going to go through that other summer torture of trying to remember how to 'mount' the roofbox on the car. Imagine trying to lodge a shape that keeps rearranging itself on the back of a recalcitrant elephant. That would be easier.

We will only have two boys with us because Joe has elected to stay home alone in the first week. Lighter load - perhaps.

I think we can do it and not incur the wrath of the Otter pilot, as we did last year. We must have looked like a family of evacuees with everything piled onto an old pram.

And I'm only writing this tosh because I like the picture I've found...

Bobby Robson

One of sport's great men, one of England's most decent men, has died. Former England football manager, Bobby Robson, was first diagnosed with cancer 18 years ago in 1991, and fought a long, brave battle. He beat bowel cancer in 1992, a malignant melanoma in 1995 and a tumour in his lung and a brain tumour, both in 2006. He left his last job as manager of Newcastle United in 2004 - appropriately, in the shabby world of football, he was sacked.

He was a great fighter and - although I am losing patience with football and its hypocrisies - this man is excluded from criticism.

Robson was a man of amazing spirit, a really tenacious character.

No hyperbole - he was a truly great guy, loved and admired by all who met him, including me.

Porthcressa - looks a bit rough at the moment.

Beaches I have roamed...

Born, bred and buttered in South Devon - by the end of July I'm absolutely gasping for a beach, the big sky, the salt-air and the sea-sounds.

Today is for clearing my desk and getting packed for another foray to the Scillies, starting with the warm embrace of the Mermaid pub in Saint Mary's, always the first stop.

Although, as we have a new berth at Porthcressa, we may try Dibble & Grub's excellent coffee or fruities. Or just flump in the Ocean...

Just the little matter of the long drive via Whimple and the tiny Otter plane from Newquay.