Ordinariness

Mid-November in the north of England. Days are short. Before you know it, the sun has gone over the houses and night-time is creeping in.

Christmas approaches relentlessly. Tinsel shines in shops. Potted baby Serbian pine trees wait in lines at B&Q stores to be adopted by families and bedecked with lights and ancient baubles hidden in attics since last January. Very few of these trees will survive central heating and the Queen's Christmas message.

Three mornings ago I chopped up an old loaf of bread and threw it on our back lawn for the birds but an urban fox emerged from the hedgerow for his breakfast. Glancing up furtively, he ate his fill and then brushtailed up the path I made this summer - past the compost bins and through the brambles.

I just finished "Bonfire of The Vanities" by Tom Wolfe - a huge tome of a novel, linguistically vibrant and passionate about the city of New York which is its ever-present backdrop. It was a really good read and I was pleased that I was able to devote many hours in relatively quick succession to the reading process. That is surely what good books deserve - not snatched half hours here and there when you're tired or travelling on a train to work.

Been sorting out our back room - the dining room. We used to have our computer station in an alcove next to the fireplace. I had used an old kitchen work surface to construct a built in unit but now we have moved the computer to the little room at the front of the house to make a proper study. This meant the decoration of the back room had to be disrupted so I have been stripping wallpaper, matching up new wallpaper and repainting. Not exactly my idea of a good time but we're getting there.

I am the live-in chef. When I was working, Shirley and I seemed to share kitchen duties but now I make all the main meals but I don't mind because I rather like cooking. What did we have tonight? It was a simple spaghetti concoction.

Fried up chopped onions, courgette, bacon and a couple of tomatoes in olive oil. Boiled the spaghetti and then mixed the two together with a small bowl of grated Parmesan. A couple of screws of black pepper and then ready to go. A delicious, simple and healthy meal - counterbalanced by the treacle pudding and cream that followed.

Time seems different these days. Once I blogged about "7:52"a.m. - which always seemed to be the time on the car clock when I set off for work along the same streets and avenues for twenty two years in a row. Now "7:52" doesn't seem to matter. It has lost its controlling power. If sleepy I can roll over and take another hour or two and at midnight the pressure to get to sleep in order to charge the old batteries for work has slunk away. I am not complaining.

Mid-November in the north of England. Days are short. Before you know it, the sun has gone over the houses and night-time is creeping in.

Valparaiso

Valparaiso is Chile's premier seaport. Hills tumble down to the thin "plata" area adjacent to the port. Hence the city boasts no less than fifteen funicular railways that look as though they have not been modernised since they were constructed a hundred years ago.

The day I was there I was the sole passenger on the Ascensor Artilleria that lifts you up from the plata to the Naval Museum. I marvelled at the marine panorama before me. In the bay were container ships and the unmistakeable darkly elegant shape of a submarine just off shore.

I aimed to remain at that high level, planning to stroll horizontally around the roads that weave around Valpo's hills before dropping to the Concepcion area that was largely responsible for winning the city its treasured World Heritage status with its "improvised urban design".

So there I am strolling along at half ten in the morning, occasionally stopping to snap images of that colourful improvisation that grew without planning retrictions. I am looking out on a jumbled hillside in the sunshine when a man and a woman approached me all in a panic.

They were probaby in their forties and spoke no English whatsoever but I got the gist of what they were trying to tell me - that the area was dangerous. Bad "hombres" would come and steal my bag and my camera, maybe even slit my throat. The concern in their eyes was genuine and though I wanted to continue with my morning stroll as planned, I allowed them to more or less push me onto a local bus for the descent back to the plata.

Later I had a lovely three course lunch on the terrace of the Hotel Brighton - a distinctive orange and white building that overlooks the Sotomayor Plaza - where I chatted to the manager of a crane hire firm. The view from that terrace was spectacular and the lunch deal I chose was even called "Menu Bahia Vista" - View of the Bay menu. Whilst in translation mode, it tickled me to discover that Valparaiso simply and literally means "Paradise Valley". Given its rough seaport reputation it isn't a name you would automatically choose for the place.

There is a noticeable British influence around the city in street names, children's schoolwear and in certain buildings. Back in Victorian times, English merchants and bankers were prominent in Valpo. There is even a "British Arch" in the main avenue that runs parallel to the seafront.

Valparaiso Gallery:-

FROM TOP - Ascensor Artilleria, Housing in the hills, Hotel Brighton, Cat on Paseo Atkinson, Random window, The British Arch.

Moai

The fifteen moai on Ahu Tongariki

Regarding the moai, I am not an archaeologist, scientist or theorist - I am just a guy who took a couple of aeroplanes to see them in their proper context.

Some facts. There are in total 887 moai "statues". Eleven were pillaged and taken elsewhere - one to the British Museum. On the island, some 357 moai can be found at the Rano Raraku crater which is where 95% of the "statues" were made from a volcanic "tuff" which was carved with a variety of harder stone tools. At this amazing quarry, a lot of finished moai are standing in sandpits, presumably ready to be moved to permanent positions elsewhere on the island. Some moai are half carved and others were rejected during the manufacturing process because of faults in the "tuff".

The moai that reached their ceremonial stone platforms all faced inland. Sadly, following contact with Europeans in the mid-eighteenth century, all of these statues were toppled. It is in any case believed that the moai making period lasted from about 1250 to 1550AD so that by the time the first Europeans began to call in, Easter Island's heyday was long past. The same applies to its forests. Studying pollen evidence, scientists deduce that by 1650 virtually all the trees were gone whereas back in the thirteenth century, the evidence says that there were many trees.

Toppled moai - these are in the majority

Whilst on the island, I of course didn't see all the moai there but I saw enough to realise that every one was different - different decorative carvings, slightly different expressions and textures, different heights and bellies. Some wore topknots or "pukao" made from red scoria stone and others didn't. The biggest moai ever moved to a platform weighed 75 tons but at the quarry there is an unfinished moai known as "El Gigante" which would have weighed an estimated 270 tons! Though there have been many theories, nobody knows for sure how the moai were moved - sometimes over ten miles.

On the day I visited Rano Raraku, there were perhaps fifty tourists keeping to the paths that weave around the moai on the crater's outer slopes. As it was mid-afternoon, the sun was in an awkward position for well-lit photography. It was a hot day and I of course had to put a knotted handkerchief on my head to avoid sunburn. This had the desired effect of driving the other visitors away because when I ventured inside the crater I was alone with older moai carved from the inner slopes. Here the light was in the right position for good photography.

A veritable herd of wild brown horses galloped into the crater and dived into the crater lake to drink and play and then they were gone leaving me alone with several moai of long ago. Their expressions were equally glum and ponderous as if they were sharing a secret, though one moai seemed to be smiling at me. I edged up to the crater's rim and looked towards the bay of Tongariki where fifteen re-erected statues look out from their "ahu" - spiritual guardians of a very different world from ours.

View of Rano Raraku crater lake with moai nose in foreground

The wry smile of the Yorkshire Pudding moai

Promenade

Centre - the fishing club at Vina del Mar

Walking along the promenade that skirts a rocky promontory between chic Vina del Mar and earthy Valparaiso, our intrepid Mr Pudding noticed a pod of pelicans on an offshore outcrop - no doubt settling down for the night. There was much jostling as the birds' pecking order was readjusted.

This was another marvellous photo opportunity. Pudding delved into his navy blue "Berghaus" knapsack and produced the Hewlett Packard digital camera he had purchased two years before. He switched on and the zoom lens automatically protruded with a comforting whirring sound. Click-click-click - images of pelicanos digitally trapped but as ever our hero was dissatisfied. He wanted to get closer to these distinctive littoral creatures.

Up ahead, he noticed steps descending to a lower platform adjacent to the prom. If I go down there I will surely be able to edge along the rocks and get closer to the squawking scoop thought Mr Pudding. However, at the base of the steps, he was surprised to discover that his way was blocked by some kind of a club or office. Down on the terracotta tiled terrace, he was no closer to the pelicans after all.

Staring out on an early evening prospect of Valparaiso, with Pacific waves lapping at the seawall, he noticed words spelled out in relief near the clubhouse door - "Club Pescadores y Aziz de Vina del Mar". Pescadores? Surely that meant fishermen - a fishing club. Just then a figure emerged from the clubhouse door. He was a man of about seventy, short and lean with a healthy complexion and gold-rimmed spectacles.

He appeared to be asking Pudding what he was doing there but as in any awkward situation in Chile, our hero simply announced "No Espanol" and smiled at the inquisitor. For a moment they were both looking at the headland where Valparaiso ends and Pudding muttered "It's beautiful. Buena senor". The short-sleeved gentleman pointed at the clubhouse sign but Mr Pudding simply asked "Cerveza?"

The man relented, frustrated by his inability to communicate and beckoned Pudding into the clubhouse. There were half a dozen middle aged people in there and they appeared to be clearing up - moving accumulated junk out of the back rooms and piling it up near the entrance. An old table tennis table, broken chairs, fading black and white photographs of the club and its members mounted on plywood boards, crates of empty bottles. The old gentleman brought Pudding a glass of ice-cold apple juice which he sipped sitting at a clubhouse table.

Conversation was difficult. English may be the international language but it had struggled to reach this corner of coastal Chile. However, where there is a will there is a way and very soon, our hero was conversing however awkwardly with club members. Eduardo was the name of the gentleman who had accosted him on the terrace - he was the elected "presidente" of the club. A few more members arrived including the naturally comical Raoul who others insisted was their "Benny Hill". Saving the day like the cavalry came Jeronimo or Jerry who had lived in Pennsylvania for twenty eight years. He was to be Mr Pudding's personal translator.

By now it was getting dark, the sun had hidden itself away for another eight hours and nightfall signalled it was time to begin drinking. Out came shiny red cans of "Escudo" beer followed by a two litre carton of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon. And as Mr Pudding drank with his new clubmates, communication was lubricated and much laughter ensued. Jerry was working hard as a translator - a big man with shovel-like hands and an unnaturally white set of cosmetically enhanced teeth that made him look American - he guffawed like a pirate and shook and squeezed his friends as if physicality was a natural feature of successful social interaction.

Raoul - the mischievous Benny Hill figure - who kept saying "We are your French" - meaning friends - nipped into a store room and came out clutching a large bottle of amber champagne which he insisted the English visitor should open. The cork hit the ceiling creating much amused laughter. "Salut!" was shouted as glasses were clinked and the mysterious visitor from Inglaterra said "Cheers!", "Chile y Inglaterra Amigos! Cheers!" and the glasses were clinked again.

Pudding helped Raoul, Eduardo and the contemplative Orlando to carry that weighty table tennis table up to the promenade where Eduardo's Chevrolet pickup truck was waiting. Then it was back down the steps for more wine and laughter as cooking smells began to emerge from the rear kitchen. Three female members of the club - including Raoul's wife Gina were busy preparing a late night feast.

Around midnight, the feast was served - a delicate chicken stew, warm potato salad, lightly steamed shredded cabbage and a platter of barbecued pork ribs marinated in Raoul's secret and delicious concoction. Then there were cakes and more wine. More "Salut!". More "Cheers!" More "Amigo!" to Mr Pudding who was hugged, squeezed and stroked like a boyband singer let loose amidst his adoring fans.

"Tomorrow!" "Vuelto mañana por la noche!" the last club members insisted as Mr Pudding ascended to the promenade in the early hours. As if warmed by "Ready Brek" central heating for kids, he floated home past the excessive Sheraton with its polished marble and valet parking. The winking lights of Valparaiso were reflected in the ocean, like a harvest of fallen stars. Falling into his bed at the humble Hostal Reloj de Flores on Avenida Los Banos, Mr Pudding smiled about the unexpected evening gone by and drifted into a deliciously deep sleep.

Eduardo, Yorkshire Pudding and Raoul

Sunsets

I would guess that many thousands of photographs have been taken of Easter Island sunsets with the silhouettes of moai in the foreground. Equally, Chile itself invites many photographs of sunsets as it has such a huge west-facing coastline.

Sunset is a special time - the dying of another day in unpredictable light patterns. Surely no two sunsets have ever been the same and the appearance of a sunset can change significantly from one moment to the next. I think of past times when people who were never bedazzled by cinema or television would surely have stood in awe appreciating the strange beauty of a sunset that would have put their own humdrum lives into some kind of a celestial perspective before the darkest shadows of nighttime enveloped them.

Even today in our frantic, accessorised world of images and satellite communication, people will often sit or stand quietly observing sunset patterns - the sunbeams, a colourwash of clouds in amber, lemon, scarlet, mauve and grey-blue, a swirl of clouds, birds flying home to roost. It's something fundamental that connects us with those who have gone before. So let me share these six sunset photos with you. The last two were from the terraces of the Universitad Catolica football ground in Santiago:-

Home

Such a long flight from Santiago to Madrid with Iberia. No individual entertainment screens and once again I was berated by a stewardess for daring to look out of the window...I mean why do they think many people prefer window seats? This time the issue was the crappy Harry Potter film being shown on the central drop down monitors. Daylight coming in would spoil the viewing. I looked around but nobody seemed to be watching it anyway. Harry sodding Potter! Again I ignored instructions and looked down upon the rainforest of Brazil.

Frustratingly, when we touched down at Heathrow - pretty much on time, the plane had to sit on the tarmac for over forty five minutes waiting for a parking space at Terminal 3. Because of this I missed my 11.30 National Express bus connection back to Sheffield by no more than three minutes. Had to then wait till two in the afternoon.

So good to see Shirley again after almost three weeks apart but it's cold here and today has seemed amazingly short. Half of me is still over there in South America but I have to pinch myself to believe that I have really visited "the navel of the world" and touched the rough volcanic texture of a moai's face. Here are five pictures I took on the island...

The crater at Rano Kau looking towards Orongo.

Birdman petroglyph on the cliffs of Orongo

Horses grazing near the great "ahu" at Anakena

Finished moai at the Rano Raraku "factory" - they never reached their "ahus"

The lovely Hotel Tiare Pacific where I stayed.

Adios

Sunset over the Estadio Universtad Catolica in Santiago

How full these days have been - so many sights, so many photographs, so many memories. A friend of mine called Mick always seemed incredulous when I mentioned travelling solo but I haven't minded one jot. Having spent so much of my life in jabbering word-rich classrooms surrounded by jabbering word-rich colleagues, it is so nice to have peace and self-direction. I have met many people on this trip from Rob the international business intern from New England to nameless travellers and the gang at the Vina del Mar Fishing Club who took me into their hearts - Eduardo, Hernan, Raoul, Orlando, Jeronimo, Patricia, Gina... How we danced and drank there beside the Pacific Ocean with the lights of Valparaiso twinkling in the mid-distance.

Last night I went to see a football match (soccer to US visitors) - Universad Catholica - the champions of Chile - versus Universad Concepcion. The "Cruzados" fans at the other end of the pitch beat drums, chanted and sang their Latin football chants continuously. It was great and Catholica won 4-1 with sweetly taken goals. Bring Juan Morales to Hull City!

I had a strange experience. A co-incidence. On the terraces I spotted a man I thought I recognised. Remember that Santiago is a city of six million souls. Then it clicked. On Monday night I had seen this same man in La Marchigiana restaurant in Mendoza - a city of one million souls. He had been with his wife and four children at the next table. At the end of the match I went up to him and confirmed the fact. He recognised me too - remembering how I had sneezed. I said the chances of us connecting again were thousands to one but he said millions. I often think - what about those co-incidences that we just miss by a hair's breadth?

So I am on this old jallopy of a computer in the reception area of the El Presidente in the Providencia area of Santiago. Time to go up to cosy Room 409 to pack my suitcase. The adventure is almost over but no doubt I will be boring you with it when I get back - hopefully with some photographs too. Adios!