... In Hong Kong

I went to Heathrow direct from the London office and met Husband in the meet and greet segment of the car park where he was leaving the car. We were slightly too early to check in so had a quick drink before joining an unnecessarily slow queue - not helped by a facilitator who seemed intent on further slowing down proceedings. Then one of the check in girls packed up and went home, even though an extensive queue was still present. Well planned shift patterns by BA!

After finally checking in (naturally there was no option for a speedier process on the basis we had hand luggage only) we got through security uneventfully and were disappointed to find the Gordan Ramsay restaurant had closed. The airport signposting to Restaurants led to one (singular) restaurant - Giraffe. It looked full and had a substantial queue. Then I spotted another place lurking in the distance where we were seated immediately and, shortly afterwards, tucked into dinner, finished off with an espresso martini. Naturally I informed bro the elder and bro the younger, given the English contingent's espresso martini initiation in Melbourne.

On the plane we were in a set of three seats by the window. Fortunately the aisle seat was empty so we expanded to take all three seats. It was a good thing we had had dinner in the airport because dinner on the flight was unpleasant. I managed to get a decent night's sleep, thanks in part to the spare seat, although there was a bit of shaky shaky in the night.

For breakfast we were served congee. We looked in a confused manner at the air host when he asked if we wanted congee - but he had no idea what it was either so couldn’t offer much in the way of explanation. Apparently it is a Chinese breakfast which amounted to an anaemic sludge boasting all the flavour and texture of baby food, topped with a sprinkling of beef and spring onions that did little to lift the overall dreariness of it. It excelled itself in managing to be more unpleasant than dinner. 

We approached Hong Kong, descending slowly over the islands, wrapped in a gentle layer of mist, and the sight of extensive shipping and industry – which included the construction of a substantial bridge between some of the islands. The landing was wobbly. 

Despite being grey and overcast, it was hot - and sticky, 27 degrees C with a humidity of 70%.

With no hold luggage to collect we strode through the airport towards passport control and the airport express. I overheard a man telling his child to stand to one side on the travellator and was struck by what an angry sounding language Chinese is. 

The queue for passport control used a lengthy taped off Chessington zoo style system, with regular switchbacks and seemed to run the length of the substantial room. On the plus side, we never actually stopped walking, and walking at a decent crack. On the downside, we probably covered about a mile of walking through the queuing system.

We rapidly negotiated the airport express and Husband procured our octopus cards - I have no idea why cities like to name their travel cards after sea creatures. The airport express sped us into Central where we needed to catch the blue MTR line. This proved slightly interesting. The line we wanted actually went from not quite Central, so we had a reasonable underground walk - a bit like getting from Bank to Monument. This wasn't helped by the signage suddenly ceasing to exist at one point. In fairness, it was at a point where there weren't really many other options, but even so, the reassurance would have been welcome.

Correct MTR located, and correct location of travel identified, we soon arrived at Sheung Wan. As soon as we emerged outside we loved it. Immediately. There was a chaotic bustle, noise, smells and a vibrant feeling of life. Narrow pavements clung to busy shops and food stalls, while a morass of high rise building rose above us in which multitudes of people lived in the smallest amount of space possible. The streets were full of people and the roads chock a block with cars and taxis. 

Apparently Queen Victoria had said ‘Albert is so amused at my having got the island of Hong Kong’, which at the time was described as ‘a barren island with hardly a house upon it’. Not any more.

Wearing UK winter weight jackets and carrying luggage we were soon sweating enormously. Our hotel which had a heavily mirrored interior meant we could have a quick freshen up before heading out into town. Our room was on the fifteenth floor, but was not high up by any means in the context of our surroundings. Once outside, we initially directed ourselves towards SoHo – which claimed to be populated with cosy cafes, trendy restaurants and quirky boutiques, and which neighboured NoHo and BoHo.

We climbed up many of the steps that comprise Ladder Street but fortunately a bar was placed handily at the junction with Hollywood Road which sold sake fish shots. We did not partake. Having cooled down we wandered along Hollywood Street and looked in the windows of the art galleries and antique shops, crammed with ornate, decorative and often pornographic bronzes and ceramics. 

I hadn't previously appreciated what a steep hill Hong Kong island occupies. Cars gently dropped down these streets and gingerly moved into the flatter roads which bisected the hill before dropping down the next hill, to avoid taking the front of their car off with the sharp change in level. This area was one of Hong Kong’s oldest neighbourhoods, and the narrow streets hid a collection of traditional shops.

We got to Aberdeen Street and took the escalator up the hill. The escalator was a brilliant but odd concept. By morning it went down, to ferry the residents to work. From around 10am until midnight it then went up. It was covered, but outside, running alongside (and sometimes above) pavements and roads that also climbed the hill in the event you wanted to walk – or go the other way. There were regular break points so that you could get off at various streets. Sometimes it was steps, sometimes a flat travellator. You could just stand there and be carried, or walk along. At the some of the break points you needed to walk along a raised foot way that linked one escalator to the next.

Where the escalator was raised, it gave us a good view of the streets around and below, so we could espy which area looked interesting or likely to have a decent restaurant. This is how we spotted Eldon Street. And on that street found Cicada, a lively, atmospheric, grungy street food style Asian tapas restaurant, which also served Saigon slings and oriental espresso martinis. Our table had a view of the kitchen, which was generally cloaked in steam and filled with busy-ness. An old lady emerged from behind a curtain over the door of a room behind the kitchen, demanded a bowl of rice (which was immediately available from a large pan), and then scurried back to her rooms. The food was spectacular. We did not have the Morning Glory - which apparently was garlic. But we did have, among other things, a sensational steamed fish and tingling chicken – which was very aptly named. That was the only appropriate word to describe it. Hot or spicy just weren't right.

When we left there was a refreshing fall of rain. It didn't warrant a jacket, and it was still hot. On one of the narrow streets that we went down, in our amble back, we happened across a small outside temple in which were hung several coils of incense surrounded by a pall of smoke, whose perfume filled the air.

On the way back to the hotel we popped into a neighbouring supermarket, which was almost entirely stocked with Tesco's own goods. We bought some water and coffee making facilities. We did try to get sachets of white coffee – thinking this may be simpler. But they all implied that sugar was included - within the mix, and rather than take the chance we instead opted for freeze dried plus a pint of milk. There was, after all, a fridge in the room.

I hadn't however seen coffee cups in the room, so we decided to pick up take away cups from reception where they were piled up for breakfast. While doing so  we discovered that there was 24 hour availability of freshly ground coffee for free! And crisps. Never mind. At least this way we could have a coffee in our room without needing to go downstairs. I put the milk in the fridge. Which didn't feel cool. At all. It was switched on, because the light was on. But not a shred of coolness emanated from it. 

We had a good night’s sleep, even though the mattress firmness had initially implied otherwise. In typical Hong Kong space saving, the bed was designed so that about a foot of mattress width rested on the wide window sill, and the bed base was consequently narrower, to give make the room have as much floor space as possible. Having woken up in the middle of the night, we then woke late the following morning. But we made it downstairs just in time for breakfast, although they were clearing it away from under our grasp. 

Although the Sevens started that afternoon, we were using the day for tourist activities, taking one of the famous double decker trams towards Chater Garden which was then a short walk from Peak Tram.  

On the walk to the tram we passed a number of shops that were stocked with buckets of dried fish, or parts thereof. Sometimes these buckets were on the pavement, giving off a pungent whiff in the humid air but most were inside shops that were air conditioned to fridge temperatures. A proper fridge. Not like the one in our hotel room.

From the tram we had a good view of the colourful alleyways between the shiny glass skyscrapers of Des Voeux Road, which hummed with market stalls and throngs of people. This was where the locals did their business, where prices were substantially lower than those in the gleaming shops on either side and where the look and atmosphere was in stark contrast to the clinical buildings they nestled between. Beyond the alleys we could see the steep hill rise up towards Victoria Peak in the distance with buildings and roads crammed onto the hillside for as high as was practical. 

We made a lucky guess at the tram stop for the peak, and walked to it on high level covered footways.  It all seemed eminently sensible - protected from sun, rain and pollution in one go, and a far more efficient way of crossing the various intervening main roads. The stop was also next to the Bank of China Tower, not beloved by the people of Hong Kong as its triangular prisms and sharp angles violate the principles of feng shui.

There was a long queue for the peak tram. However, unconvinced that it was likely to be shorter later on or that we had time later in our trip, we joined it. As the sun rose the queue was moved across the road into the shade of a flyover which was a welcome relief. Many in the queue had put up umbrellas or sheltered as a group, like a caterpillar, under someone's shawl. An enterprising chap had set up a drinks stall under the flyover and did a roaring trade.

The queue was slow, and at times it seemed we only moved forward when groups ahead gave up and left. Finally we reached the front and lined up ready to board the next tram. Despite being called ‘tram’, it was in fact a funicular. Originally steam powered, it was built to speed the wealthy to their mountainside retreats. Prior to that, rickshaws and sedan chairs were the only way up. It was a seriously steep climb and gave your neck muscles a work out just trying to keep your head upright. The wooden seats were slippery and I suspected that trying to stay on them would be the challenge coming back down. 

Husband acquired an Asian girlfriend as he was befriended by the girl sitting next to him. There was a mid way station stop, and views over the city through the trees, bamboo and jungle flowers. But there were also apartment blocks for quite a way up the hill, so on the one hand we could see the tops of skyscrapers on the shore line below, but also the lower floors of a skyscraper nearby. Stopping, on such a steep slope, was not the safest feeling.

At the top we arrived inside a multi-storey terminus of shops, entertainment and restaurants. It seemed odd that the assumption was that we had come all the way up to fulfil some form of consumerism need rather than admire the view. For that we had to go to the top of the building a few floors higher, up a series of escalators. They do, after all, like an escalator in Hong Kong. From the top we had panoramic views across the hazy island below. It was still warm, even this high up. Apparently the Victorians preferred the climate on the top – there was perhaps more breeze, but certainly not corset and bustle weather.

We found a bar under the cool and shade of lush trees for a drink and snacks, which included soft shell crab. 

As we went, with heavy heart, to join the lengthy queue for the return tram, on the spur of the moment we visited a vintage tram carriage which was installed nearby. It was a tourist information office, and the man inside warned us that the wait for a tram would be at least an hour given where it currently was. But, he said, just around the corner was a bus stop and the number 15 went back to the centre of town. We took his advice, and within 5 minutes were on a bus which had set off down the hill. This did mean paying again for a downhill journey, but this was a small price to pay for the time saved. And also, we were afforded an entirely different view and experience of the peak. The number 15, however, was somewhat bumpier a ride than the tram with fierce stops and starts that launched us off our seats as we hurtled down the hill until we finally joined the traffic jam of downtown Hong Kong, which hummed with life, bustle and the background music of car horns.

We took the bus all the way to the ferry port with the intention of getting the star ferry to Kowloon. Husband wondered what was so special about Star ferries. Until we saw them. It was a 12 boat fleet of wonderfully ancient decrepit little ferries, and all named after stars. So there was morning star, northern star, twinkling star and so on.

Passengers could only access one level of the ferry which had uneven wood timbered decking and not enough seats for everyone on board. But it was only a short trip, and very enjoyable one during which we saw a traditional Chinese junk on the water, with Hong Kong as its backdrop.

Although smaller than Hong Kong island, Kowloon has almost twice the population. On arrival at Kowloon we saw the 1910 clock tower which is all that remains of the once grand Kowloon-Cantoon Railway terminus where trains used to depart Hong Kong for Paris. We enjoyed a short walk along the promenade, and views of Hong Kong island, to Nathan street. This was a long, tree lined boulevard which led up to the markets we wanted to visit. Created by a governor of Hong Kong it was first known as Nathan’s folly running through what was practically a wilderness. It was very long, and (perhaps indicating that Mr Nathan’s idea wasn’t so absurd) it was now lined with high end western designer shops that spilled blasts of ice cold air into the streets through their open doors. Every ten paces or so a man would approach Husband and offer to make him a shirt or trousers. After a while Husband started to take it as a personal affront on his current attire and wondered what was so wrong with how he was dressed, which was clearly pretty bad. This part of town was apparently where some electronic and camera bargains could be found, but off the main road. We popped into one or two shops, but the prices didn't seem that much of good deal.

As soon as you stepped away from Nathan street it became very Chinese. Some people say Kowloon is more Chinese than Hong Kong. We didn’t particularly feel that. But it did feel poorer and away from the glass and steel department stores of Nathan Street the buildings were more dilapidated.

We arrived at the jade market which was filled over a 100 stalls huddled together in a tent, each laden with a host of green goods that were almost certainly not jade. Each stall was broadly the same - earrings, dragons, necklaces, miniature animals. And the stall keepers would chase after us and grab our arm to drag us back to see their wares. I had forgotten this Chinese invasion of personal space. We knew what we wanted, a green stoned miniature turtle which may or may not be jade, and having bought it, we escaped - further perusal being too challenging to do in peace. 

While looking for the night marker we came across a fruit street market where the pungent smell of drains and gas mingled with the sweet and fresh aroma from the fruit. There were a multitude of fruits that we had never seen before. Many had been cut open and often the inside revealed a flesh which you would not have imaged from its outside. 

The night market proved troublesome to find. Eventually we did find it in the elusive temple street and realised that part of the difficulty had been that, contrary the information in the guide book, it hadn't really started yet and stalls were only just being set up. Apparently the night market was Hong Kong’s liveliest market where everything is sold from souvenirs to electronics, and street food is served from woks on the pavements. Based on what we saw the stalls were largely filled with tat, which would still look like tat in the dark. And it was a long way from being lively. There was only once obviously street food venue. Being popular with the locals we went over to have a look. Whatever it was may have tasted delicious but didn’t look like something you particular wanted to bother with. We also saw substantial scaffolding made solely from bamboo, lashed together.

Disappointed, we headed back, pausing for rest the garden adjoining Tin Hau Temple at the end of temple street. Here men played board games while groups of other stood around watching them. Who knew that such games were a spectator sport. It was a quiet place, slightly raised from the street. After a short rest we carried on, this time walking down the other side of the street to that which we walked up. As a result we saw a fish restaurant, identified by the vast tanks in the window with huge Alaskan crabs and other shellfish. In some ways, it seemed a terrible shame to eat such magnificent creatures.

Now achy, we caught the MTR at Jordan back to Sheung wan. This time we took a different exit, a little nearer to the hotel. And when we got outside, right across the road, there was a bar. However, our side of the street was slightly raised and had a railing. We looked left and right to decide the quickest way from where we were, around the barrier, across the road and into the bar. It didn't take long.

Our forage for dinner that night took us to a Nepalese restaurant. To be honest, finding Asian food was proving difficult. Italian and Argentinian were plentiful. When we sat down we were presented with a close relative of the poppodom, accompanied by two dips - one green and one red.  They were equally spicy and my Everest snowfall gin cocktail was not quite up to the cooling job required. Dinner was scrumptious and afterwards we walked back to our new found bar for an espresso martini and old fashioned. They did, after all, have a substantial range of bitters. I kept the brothers up to date with the ongoing espresso martini research. Bro the younger commented that I would be awake for a month. And there I was thinking it was the jet lag making me wake up at ungodly hours of the morning. The cocktail waitress wrung out orange peel over the old fashioned to put an orange mist on the glass. Husband had an old smokey whose smokiness was added by an ardbeg spray being applied. This pleased him greatly and immediately became his new favourite aftershave. 

We walked back to the hotel past a sports car whose number plate was Marry Me which seemed like a proposal that would be hard to refuse.

I don't recall the full details of that evening – please note above references to the alcoholic drinks consumed. But I do know that the following morning I had a love bite, and glared at Husband accusingly. He, however, looked rather pleased with himself. We were up early that morning in order to get over to the rugby 7's stadium and decided to have a coffee in the room. Black. Because the ineffective fridge had failed to cool the milk, which had completely solidified. Milk to cheese in just over 24 hours, such was the heat. I had, however, discovered the coffee cups in the room.

We took the underground to Causeway Bay but had no idea how to get from there to the stadium, located in Happy Valley. Initially we followed other people who looked like they were going (rugby tops). However, they didn't seem to have much clue either and we soon lost them. By this point we had left the underground which would have indicated the correct exit. Unlike in England, the exits from Hong Kong stations were streets away from each other. Our map was not very detailed, but we did soon identify where we were, and therefore where we needed to go. It was hot and sticky, so we hadn't particularly relished the additional walk. 

Now in among other fans, we headed to the stadium which nestled in the hillside, overlooked by high rise apartment buildings. Happy Valley was at one time a very miserable valley, a swamp land conducive only to breeding malarial mosquitoes until it was drained in 1873 – initially for a horse racing track.

There were many people dressed up. Some of the costumes were probably not ideal for the weather, except for the lads dressed up (or should that be dressed down) as sumo wrestlers - slim lads wearing black wigs and nappies, and nothing else. Husband found it so disturbing he was nearly put off his beer. The south stand was where most of the costumed people wanted to be and the heart of the greatest craziness.  By 10am, the south stand was full and the queue to get in was over 4 hours long. Birds of prey circled overhead. Perhaps hunting the huge butterflies that were fluttering around.

There was a great atmosphere, much singing and great games of rugby. Mid afternoon there was a parade of children, which seemed to go on for some time. We suspected that every child in Hong Kong was there. The procession never seemed to end. Kids came out of an entry at one corner onto the pitch, joined the march around the edge before going back in a different corner - no matter how quickly they went back in, more still poured out onto the pitch. We started to suspect it was the same children, changing into different uniforms when they got inside before coming out to do it all again. 

There are no allocated seats and we had initially sat in the north stand before deciding to go up to one of the side stands. However, due to the steepness of these, alcohol was not allowed in the stand and could only be drunk in the concourse behind. Husband popped out for a beer. He was gone quite some time. All became clear when he returned. He had accidentally ordered a litre of beer. Probably because he was still disturbed by the sumo wrestlers’ buttocks. 

When the day finished, deciding that the underground would be hot and busy we decided to take a tram back instead. It took a minute or two to find one going in the direction we wanted, but was a much nicer journey, helped by the welcome breeze coming in through the open windows.

We popped into what had now become our local bar before going out for dinner. On previous evenings we had tried to get into a restaurant called Monogamous, but they had been full. This time we were successful. It was nestled beneath the escalator, and we had been lured by the red Chinese lantern we had espied from the escalator. It was a curious place. A huddle of white shirted men sat outside who transpired to be nothing to do with the restaurant at all.

This was a fancy restaurant and we were perhaps a bit under dressed. However, we tried new and interesting food, including tofu root, sliced duck with handmade pancakes and a delicious fish dish which was served in between the pan fried head and tail that I assume belonged the body flesh 'casserole' in between. The restaurant walls were scattered with a range of interesting artworks which were for sale. These included a portrait of what looked very much like Mao.

That night Husband's phone rang at an unsociable hour. This wasn't helpful. We needed to be up early again the next morning for the final day of the 7's. The lift in the hotel provided details of the temperature and humidity. Every day it had been 21 degrees C and 70% humidity. Today was no exception and we were starting to doubt its accuracy.

Now knowing our way, we arrived at the stadium more simply. This time we sat in the stand on the other side, mainly because sun was predicted and we had been a bit too much in the sun the previous day. In the end the whole day was cloudy with the threat of rain. But perhaps others had thought like us as this stand filled quickly while the 'sunny side' remained emptier, quite the opposite of yesterday. 

England put on a poor show. Unfortunately we were sitting next some welsh people who would support anyone except England. Hilariously they accidentally supported England for half of one game as they had assumed England was in white. Happily Wales were knocked out shortly after England and the sevens were eventually won by the Olympic gold medal team of Fiji in a game which went to sudden death extra time. There were awards and fireworks and then we joined the throng back to the underground which was a remarkably efficient process.

We passed some people with counting clickers, clicking frantically. This seemed most baffling. The crowd was a good 20 people wide and there were hundreds of us piling past. It seemed an impossible, and slightly pointless, counting job.

We were kettled briefly as part of crowd control to negotiate a main road during which time the crowd repeatedly sang Hey Baby - or more specifically the ooh ahh part as really we all only knew about two lines of the song. So sung them on repeat. And I'm sure the people in the apartments above us were loving us.

After the kettling and sing song we were soon into the station and on a train, which wasn't even crowded. When we got back to Sheung Wan we were disappointed to see that the Blackstar pub was closed. So we went into SoHo for beer and dinner, opting for Peak cafe, which was next to the escalator. This was people watching for the modern generation as people were randomly and mechanically ferried past us. It also reminded me of the conveyor belt prize gifts test of 80's TV shows. 

We went to a Thai restaurant for dinner, which was spectacular, and the Thai red wine was surprisingly good. The waiter was curious about Thai food in England and seemed surprised that outside London it was not easy to find good Thai. 

I had a soup with lumps in which, when I bit into them, things happened in my mouth that cannot be explained or described. We returned to the hotel, stuffed. 

The following morning we rose late, and packed before deciding on our plan for the day. We opted on a trip to Aberdeen, but were initially baffled about how to get there. We assumed central station would be the place to start, but it wasn't clear. We did manage to get some guidance from a helpful guard which was when we first realised how much of the island the MTR covered. Like all underground maps, it was geographically misleading.

Aberdeen is the island’s oldest settlement. According to local information this town had resulted in the island accidentally being renamed Hong Kong. When explorers landed in Aberdeen they asked what the place was called. Hong Kong was the response, meaning that town. It was assumed that this name referred to the island. And by the time the error was realised it became too complicated to change. So the town of Hong Kong was renamed Aberdeen, as it reminded the powers that be of the Scottish port, with the backdrop of mountains.

Unlike the Scottish version, Aberdeen was slightly scruffy and smelled of fish. We went to the temple which was dark inside, filled with burning coils of incense which gave off a pungent smell, red fabrics hanging from the ceiling and a large gold Buddha.  It housed a Quing dynasty bell.

We walked down to the harbour and took a boat tour. The harbour – which was a typhoon shelter - was home to a large floating population of boat people who spent their entire lives on junks, some claiming never to have set foot on land. While most have now moved to nearby high rises, a small community remains, and can be toured. There was only us on the boat- our own private Sampan. This had once been a private lair, so maybe getting on a boat with them wasn't a wise decision. 

The boat trip was good. Boat people still lived on the boats, complete with dogs and gardens. I could smell the aroma of geraniums over the odour of the sea, fish and diesel. Lots of them had dogs. I wasn't sure if this was a better way to live than in the crowded high rises which peered over them from the shore. 

Birds of prey circled, foraging over the sea.

Our sampan took us over to see Jumbo, the gaudy floating restaurant that which had its own boat for guests. It was only visited by tourists. Our boat trip took us round the back, which showed that the workings of Jumbo, including the kitchen, were foul and decrepit. You wouldn't eat there if you'd seen this first. 

Back on land, we were hungry but struggled to find food. The restaurants provided no English and we were not confident in our ability to pick something or in the patience of the Chinese waiting staff to cope with our lack of understanding. Consequently we decided to get back to Central and hunt out a new area above Wyndham Street. We found drink, but struggled to be inspired by the food on offer, so went to Blackstar. They didn’t do food until 6pm but we decided we could wait. During this wait we pondered the flight ahead – and the food we may be presented with.  Husband decided that airplane food should be a pork pie and sachet of mustard on the basis that you couldn't go far wrong with this.

We finished with an old smokey and espresso martini before heading back to the airport. The airport express train had personal speakers in the headrest and individual volume control. Naturally we played with it, but it didn’t seem to work that well. On arrival at the airport we cashed in out octopus card and checked in, before settling in a bar with fantastically poor service. The surly waitress only cheered up, and applied any speed to her activities when she could gleefully tell us all to leave as they were closing. We happily obliged and shortly afterwards were onboard our overnight flight.

This time there was a stranger sitting in the aisle seat. She put was young, put a neck rest on and promptly feel asleep. This made getting out for a pee rather tricky. When we woke her up in the morning to this purpose, she got up and went to queue for the loo. Husband wondered whether she had taken it as instruction rather than a request. Anyway, the purpose was achieved.

Breakfast was much improved on the return flight and before long we landed back in a deliciously cool England – for which many of the passengers were woefully underdressed. If only there was a street of men available who could offer to make them trousers and shirts while they waited!