Travel
Errol Flynn’s Jamaica
It was a warm winter morning in Marrakech and I was staring at a … The baby sea lion looked as if it was sleeping, resting peacefully under a mangrove tree seemingly hiding from the sun. I went closer and realised it was dead: the third carcass I had seen on my first day in the Galapagos Islands. The rose-seller is stalking me. It is a brilliant blue-skied November morning in Rome and I am standing on the Spanish Steps silently contemplating the beauty of Bernini's fountain when he sees me. He rushes towards me, a long-stemmed flower in his outstretched arm … It was only when the band turned up that I realised this wasn't going to be an ordinary train journey. The band – five fellows playing trumpet, oboe and assorted other instruments in a heroically tuneless manner – followed us from the coach that had deposited us outside Bangalore train … There has been a terrible mistake, a catastrophic collapse in communication. I am sitting on a black leather stool in a recording studio in Jamaica. I am wearing a grey Bob Marley T-shirt and there’s a pair of padded headphones on my head, a silver dimpled microphone in front of … this was published in the observer in the travel section on jan 11 2009. It was the last week of December and the city was shrouded in a blanket of fresh snow. The clock claimed 10am and yet the sky was gunmetal grey and the skyline was beaded in a … When it comes to the countryside I am, to quote Woody Allen, at two with nature. I prefer BlackBerrys to blackberries and rugged isn’t a word often used to describe my physique. Forget the right to bear arms; I balk at the right to bare arms. And yet while I … Marrakech travel: learning to swim
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