Bangkok - Part 3: Wat Saket and the Floating Markets

Tranquil serenity did not describe the next temple on the tour. My word, no. Wat Saket, or the Golden Mount, is constructed on the only hill in Bangkok. It holds relics of the Lord Buddha brought here from India. It is a most holy place to Buddhists from Thailand and beyond. It can prove to be incredibly busy. During the seven day Loi Krathong festival there is a sacred ceremony held to worship the relics, when prayers are offered up for the continued prosperity of the country. This version of the temple was commenced during the reign of King Rama IV. Yep, he’s the one!

If you are like me and have very little knowledge of Thailand beyond “The King and I” and “The Bridge Over the River Kwai,” you will remember “The King and I” was based on the book, “Anna and the King of Siam.” As far as I can tell, there never was a problem with the book but the musical film, starring Yul Brynner, was a different kettle of fish. I am not sure whether it is true or not, but our guide informed us that that particular version of the story is banned until this day in Thailand. Just bear with me, go and make a cup of tea or something, while I check this out on Google.

Ah, yes! It looks like it went downhill from the time Hollywood got involved. There was a 1946 version of the story starring Rex Harrison and Irene Dunn that appears to have survived the censorial chop. It is a couple of the more recent editions, that have portrayed King Mongkut in a disrespectful manner that have attracted the ire of the Thai censors. Given that the Thai Royal Family is held in such reverence by its people I am not quite sure why these versions chose the route they took. Some of the reasons seem a little churlish to western eyes and ears but, I think, if you go back a couple of hundred years in England to, say, maybe the early Restoration, you might find it wouldn’t just be your work that was cut from history.

Commentators at the time certainly ended up with their heads on blocks for criticising King Charles II. Stones and glasshouses come to mind. We, too, have a history that contemporary views struggle to come to terms with. I like the view that some of the censors took in that it is a story only loosely based on the original memoirs and should be treated as a work of fiction. When looking this up I found out that “One Night in Bangkok” is also banned in Thailand. I’m grateful that no-one heard me whistling along to the tune as I made my way around the temples. Sorry, I had no idea.

Anyway, back to the Golden Mount. Most definitely not tranquil on New Year’s Eve. There were series of bells hanging along the staircase to the top, a total of 320 risers altogether, and just about everyone was tempted by the invasive thoughts of clonking each and every bell on the way up. Some seemed to be getting real joy out of making the most incredible din. It played merry havoc with my replacement eyes, remember I use my ears as eyes. Well, I wasn’t going to be beaten, in which case, join them. I loved every minute of it. I hammered every bell on the way up. Nobody seemed to notice I was playing my own versions of “One Night….” And “Shall We Dance?”

After the temples and an aborted visit to the Grand Palace, jammed car park and heavy traffic, we set off for the Dammoen Saduak floating market. After a stop to collect some cash at a motorway service station ATM, we found ourselves at a small riverside jetty. Off we motored into the canals, khlong in Thai, and rivers to the markets. Instead of being seated on a wooden thwart I found myself, rather precariously, on a cheap plastic garden chair, no restraint and little freeboard. Not sure it would have received a ‘Certificate of Seaworthiness,’ or ‘River Worthiness’ at home?

There were some wonderful stalls with all sorts of tropical fruit displayed but we were not there for that. We wanted little mementoes to pack in our cases to take home. Most of the stuff we bought you would not give a second look to in the local supermarket but that wasn’t the half of it. Bartering was the order of the day and I loved it. Jane felt sorry for the people scratching out a living in this way. A glance into the waterside homes soon dispelled that feeling as she noted massive TV screens hanging on walls within, and four-wheeled drives parked up to landward. So bargain we did. We bought some toot but I took immense joy in never paying the RRP. When we got home the grandchildren loved all their knickknacks.

This was a different world. Whilst boating along a plot of a novel started to form in my mind. I have now started ‘Kidnap,’ the working title, and aim to have it finished during next year for release during 2026. I am not going to divulge too much, except to say that someone kidnaps Sue-Beth Walters’s son and his girlfriend; I don’t think it will end well for someone. Will that be Sue-Beth, Curt, Toby or someone else?

Sometimes you notice such an incongruity that it really does need a second, even a third or fourth look. I didn’t notice it, of course, but above the treeline Jane spotted the fuselage of a Lockheed L111 Tristar jet propped up for all to see. Our water-guide said it was a restaurant. It is amazingly out of place but adds to the intrigue of this landscape.

Next week will see us heading off to the infamous Bridge over the River Kwai.

Arriving in Paphos

We touched down in the land of Adonis, Aphrodite, Archbishop Makarios and... Peter Andre. As we rocked up at Stansted Airport, Freyr, the Norse God of rain, decided to send us on our way with a light drizzle; he must have sent Hermod (Norse) or Hermes (Greek) to inform his Greek counterpart, Zeus, that we were on our way. He greeted us with thunderbolts and lightning; very, very frightening. As we descended into Paphos Airport we could feel the aircraft becoming a little frisky.

The drive to the hotel saw a tempest of Shakespearean proportions batter the taxi. Rivers of water cascaded along the highway, lightning sheeted the sky and raindrops, sounding like musket balls, assailed the car. Visions of Valencia, a few days earlier, haunted my imagination. Fortunately, it stopped as quickly as it had started. I had every sympathy with the good denizens of the Spanish city who had endured hour after hour of a similar deluge. A journey that took mere minutes for the return seemed never ending for the inward leg.

Our friends at Premier Travel of Swaffham had put a great sounding escape together for us: eleven nights at, what turned out to be, the wonderful Hotel Annabelle. It was meant to include VI assistance for me. Given that I had been assured that this most important facility had been arranged, it was most disappointing to be told that I had no assistance booked by the Airport authorities. Jet2.com Airline had certainly played their part, but when I was given over into the care of the Airport it was a different matter altogether. The woman who said that the computer said no was brusque and should not have been in a customer facing role.

In the end, assistance was organised and we could start our holiday. The onboard experience of assistance was as good as the terminal had been bad. A member of the cabin crew welcomed us and saw us to our seats. She then brought along some props. Until then, I had no idea what an uninflated life-jacket felt or looked like, and only a vague notion of what an oxygen mask felt like. I now know; brilliant attention to detail. Thank you Premier Travel and Jet2.com.

Note to Stansted Airport: assistance is not a luxury that your management believes it to be. My wife cannot guide me, handle luggage and find her way without help; it is essential that you provide us with this service. When, eventually, a very nice lady turned up to get me through the myriad of challenges presented by a modern airport terminal, she confirmed my suspicions. I accept that, just maybe, my questions might be construed as leading, my Lord, but she said that the airport management considered their role a necessary burden. She even stated, without being led, that her and her colleagues were excluded from staff events as their role is not considered crucial. Trust me, Messrs Stansted Airport, their role is not only crucial, it is most essential to me, and people like me, who depend on this facility for level playing field accessibility. Neither was there assistance waiting for us upon our return. By the way, it wasn’t just me, there were other disabled users who had been told exactly the same by the “Computer says no,” woman. I hope that this is passed onto Stansted Airport management, and that you can find it in your heart to get in touch. Let us work together on this and not against each other.

Annabelle, on first appearances and in the dark, seemed first rate. Booked in for dinner, shown to the room and settled in. We tried the bed and it passed the test; then the shower, plenty big enough, also passed the test.

A goal-flash came across the ether from Portman Road. The Tractor Boys were one up after 55 minutes against Leicester City. Just when I thought the first win of the season was with us, the Foxes spoiled the party with an equaliser well into added on time. Things were to get even better the following weekend. I have a theory for this and will put it to the club in the next week or so. Basically, it means me being taken onto the Club’s payroll, and sent to Cyprus, as a good luck charm. I’ve already spotted the grace and favour home they can get for me. I think it is a business proposal without flaw! A win, win!

Dinner wasn’t until nine, so we found the lounge, as you do, for a pre-prandial. The bar was short-staffed thanks to the torrential downpour of earlier, electronics were out and not much was working correctly. One customer, English I am afraid, let the side down by protesting that he had waited nearly four seconds for his drink to be delivered and it still hadn’t arrived. “Do you know how much I paid for this holiday?” he chastised the waiter.

The waiter was most apologetic and the complainant returned to his cage for the time being.

I have always been reticent about booking a package holiday for fear of being planted in a resort of English lager louts. I wondered if our friend, he was of an age with us, had been one of those same lager louts of yore? Couldn’t wait to get on it.

We had booked into the splendid Mediterraneo Restaurant, which meant braving the outdoors, only to get to the restaurant, not to eat in it. The weather had abated and although water droplets, mainly from gutters and trees, splashed around us, it was a dry path to the eatery. The food was Italian and, in my mind, faultless. I did hear rumblings from some guests that it was not of such great quality. I am no food critic, and so long as it tastes alright to me, it will do just fine.

Evening complete, we returned to the room, to sleep on the most comfortable mattress I have ever experienced in an hotel.