Having been in Asia for 25 years, yet being European, I have been feeling a little disconnected from my roots. When I left for Asia, Maggie Thatcher was Prime Minister, the Soviet Union still existed, Hong Kong was British, and Deng Xiaoping was the most senior Chinese official. The Euro as a currency did not exist.
I’ve been fortunate this summer to spend a good month with friends of mine who have a Dacha about 100km south from Moscow, on the road to Minsk. Correctly speaking, Dacha’s were summer houses gifted to individuals who had ‘served the State’ – a traditional begun by the Tsar and continued during the Soviet era. Most Dachas today that are in family hands date from the latter period, and are often collective – with owners all having had the same background in the military or with specific factories or organizations. Consequently they are often grouped together in a compound, albeit out in the country, typically near a large lake or river, yet enabling a common and shared security.
Stalin is his later years was not dissimilar to Churchill, corpulent, and a bit of a gourmet. When meeting Roosevelt and Churchill at the Yalta Conference, Stalin laid on gallons of Sovietskya, the mass produced, sweet sparkling wine as evidence that as a result of Communism, even the poor could drink ‘champagne’ in the USSR. Churchill wasn’t taken in by that, and wisely refrained from commenting, but he did appreciate Stalin’s ‘Cognac’ – Armenian Mount Ararat Brandy. Churchill went so far as to pronounce it “better than the finest French Cognac†– and I wouldn’t disagree. It’s the 20 year old  that is the one to try, although I make a Sovietskaya/3 year old Armenian brandy cocktail I call the Stalin when these products are available.
Returning to my Ulaan Baatar apartment for the first time in a few months means opening up the balcony windows, arranging for a good clean – March brings Gobi dust storms and even with my tight fitting, German manufactured window and door frames, Gobi dust manages to find its way in – and I prepare the apartment for the summer and autumn. I like to use it as a base for adventures, exploring, and writing. I have a huge library here on all matters Mongolian, Tibetan and Central Asian, and listen to Shoshtakovich’s String Quartets while sipping Georgian Sapervari.
Mongolia is blessed with pristine rivers and lakes, and due to the relative remoteness of the country, and the fact that the Nomads don’t usually eat fish (a lack of fats needed to bulk up for the harsh winters) these pure waters are left in relative quiet. I learned to fly fish in Scotland, hours practicing with just a line and trying to precision hit a clump of thistles 25, 50, then 75 yards away before eventually upgrading to Brown Trout and the nocturnal Sea Trout.
The monsoon arrived last week in Sri Lanka. It had been overcast for days, no sun, and raining on and off. It had been building up to this of course, but the previous past two weeks had been fine albeit with regular pregnant rain showers. The Monsoon actually made landfall in Bombay three weeks ago and has been tantruming and showering its way East ever since. It marked its full arrival in Sri Lanka by being moody and petulant; the garden birds sullen, the Ocean rough and disturbed, and the Fishing Boats have been erratic in their catch. One local, a boy of 18, has been drowned and is unfound a mile off the coast when a rigger capsized, and since then the waves have become even more unpredictable. Seven were rescued, and the local Temples have been festooned in white in mourning for a truly Lost Boy. Women have wailed, while local Monks remain stoic, and the Father drinks. He has nothing left but daughters now, and he is ruined. The Fishermen stay at home, annoying their wives and disturbing harmonious lives. Deprived of nets, and hooks, and the stench of rotting fish, they instead watched the World Cup until 6am and drink too much Arrack. Ocean swells have been replaced with Hangovers. Diets change from Mahe Mahe and Tuna to Mutton and Goat, and sometimes even those are the same. It has been time now for me to pack. I bear north-east to Mongolia for the summer, the Siberian grasslands and long evenings out with the horses, swapping Ocean Spray for Arctic Rivers.
Colombo is of course the capital city of Sri Lanka, while St. Andrews is a very old and famous gold course. It is actually possible to travel from one to the other by locomotive – albeit if one settles for the St. Andrews Golf Course in Nuwara Eliya, Sri Lanka’s central hill country. Sri Lanka has, a legacy of the British colonial times, a pretty good, and given the natural loveliness of the island, rather beautiful railway system that originally began way back in 1858. It is also one that for me, probably affords the best views to be had of the interior. Starting off though, one really needs to catch the early morning “Blue Trainâ€, a gift from the Italians, and pulling the only air conditioned coaches in Sri Lanka. That means first class, but in the lowland sweltering heat that is rush hour Colombo, is well worth the additional few extra Rupees. I am somewhat amused by the name, as it echoes “Le Train Bleu†the overnight luxury Calais-French Riviera route that was operable prior to WWII. That was the inspiration behind the ballet of the same name, created by Serge Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, with a story by Jean Cocteau, music by Darius Milhaud, choreography by Bronislava Nijinska, costumes by Coco Chanel and with the theatre curtain painted by Pablo Picasso. That’s quite an array of 1920’s premium artistic talent. I have seen the ballet, which basically involves exercises on the beach, some coy heterosexual and homosexual liaisons, and it is fun. In honour, I have the score on my ipod.
Waiting for the Blue Train
I have been able to secure my first property in Europe for some 30 years with the purchase of a Penthouse apartment overlooking one of the Marinas in Malta. When I left the UK for Asia all those years ago, the European Union didn’t exist as such, at least not with the right to abode, visa free EU travel, a unified currency and so on. Now of course as a British national I can choose to live anywhere in the EU, and Malta has been a member since 2004. I have been considering a property in Europe for some time, however London is too expensive (and anyway I can stay at my club, the Royal Overseas League, relatively inexpensively) while other cities such as Tallinn appealed but is too cold in winter and use of English is problematic. The ideal location for me would be close to other European cities, with sailing a bonus, use of English prevalent and with a large dose of historic culture. Malta fits the bill – and as a bonus, the capital city Valletta is a UNESCO world heritage site, while property remains at present, good value. Rome is a one hour flight, Paris a little over two, and London three. Plus Malta has direct connections to cool cities such as Istanbul, St. Petersburg and Alexandria. Sicily, Capri, and Sardinia to the North-West, and the Greek islands to the South-East are all within sailing distance.
Spending half of my time these days at my properties in Sri Lanka, I have been able to gradually work out what I have growing and what needs to be cultivated – and more importantly, prepared for gourmet cuisine. With two acres of gardens to plunder, it has taken not little hard work to first examine what trees and plants are incumbent, what can be disposed of, and what I should introduce. Happily though, I have been blessed with a wealth of mature, productive trees of several species, all probably planted about 70-80 years ago and now in the prime condition for exploiting their natural fruits.
One of the great attractions about Sri Lanka is that it is also one of the world’s primary destinations for whale watching. Little known about until after the end of the civil war, a deep underwater trench exists off the south and east coast of the island, and is the closest subterranean trench to land in the world. Big whales like deep trenches, and it is thought that the canyons encircling Sri Lanka extend all the way across the Bay of Bengal and further west to the Arabian Sea. Whales use this as a passageway from Arabia and India through to Sri Lanka, where it is thought many calve just off the coast at Trincomalee.